


Consulting for Christmas

by ohlooktheresabee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All The Tropes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Romance, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Background Case, Background Mystrade, Case Fic, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fanart, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Fun, Gen, Heist, Ice Skating, Idiots in Love, It's For a Case, Jealousy, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, Light Angst, M/M, Mistletoe, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Paris (City), Pining, Podfic Available, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock's Heart, Sweet, Thriller, Tropes, christmas tropes, seriously just a tropey fun fluff-bomb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28193601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlooktheresabee/pseuds/ohlooktheresabee
Summary: COMPLETE!The Louvre Museum in Paris is planning to host the celebrated Winter Fabergé Egg for its winter exhibition - quite the feat as it has not been on public display since 2002. However there is a snag: whispers of a world-renowned master-thief with his eyes set on the valuable prize. The curator has asked the famous Sherlock Holmes to consult on security, but the detective needs a lot of convincing: he is after all a bit busy with trying to woo a certain clueless ex-army doctor…At the same time, John is attempting to balance work, missing Rosie who is off on her gap year, a volunteer gig at a local London orphanage, and seething jealousy upon the arrival of an apparent old friend of Sherlock’s. Attempting to foil the heist of the century while remaining friendly and objective might just be a step too far...A Christmas crime caper packed full of misdirection, miscommunication and mistletoe, set against the romantic backdrop of London and Paris in the winter. Thrown into all this, will our two idiots finally manage to see what has been right in front of them all along?Chapters 1-3 are the complete fic, chapters 4-6 are the accompanying ARTWORK from the amazing alifetimeaheadtoprovethat!
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 77
Kudos: 127
Collections: 2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style, Festive Johnlock Collection, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	1. Chapter 1

[ ](https://ibb.co/F3TGXM0)

“Gay,” drawled a voice from a corner of the crowded room.

It came from Charlie Eddington, the 15 year old ring-leader of Abbott House’s disaffected youth, and current bane of John Watson’s existence. John took a deep breath and prayed for patience before looking up from the table at yet another interruption.

“Charlie, it’s a resuscitation dummy. Nothing gay or straight about it. Now, as I was about to demonstrate, once you have checked the airway you need to make a tight seal with your mouth…”

“Gaaaay,” Charlie said again, and there was a ripple of muffled laughter across the assembled crowd. John stood straight and crossed his arms, surveying the faces disapprovingly.

“Look, kids,” he said, attempting to appeal to their better nature. A variety of expressions from a variety of age-groups looked back at him. There were close to thirty of them, sitting or sprawled over different items of furniture that had no-doubt been donated. “This is something that might save your friend’s life someday. It’s serious stuff.” He got a couple of eyerolls for that. “Charlie,” he tried, “what are you going to do if there’s an accident and Steve over there isn’t breathing?”

“Well I’m not going to snog him, am I?” Charlie said in a mock-disgusted voice, shoving his friend Steve away from him then pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up theatrically as if to shield his face. There were louder laughs at that. Steve grinned then approached Charlie, hands outstretched.

“Oooo Charlie,” he said, voice high-pitched. “Charlie, please, help me, I can’t breathe!” Charlie tried to push his way through the crowd but there was little space in the packed room. Steve laughed uproariously and kept after him.

“Kiss him!” One of the girls shouted.

“Charlie, Steve, stop that!” John said, sternly, but sensed it was a losing battle.

“Charlieeee!” Steve cried in a wailing, drawn-out shriek, still chasing the other boy. “Charlie I need your kiss of life!”

“Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him…” the others were chanting by now. Charlie vaulted over the back of a sofa, causing more squeals of laughter from the younger girls sitting there who then tried to hold onto Charlie so Steve could get to him. Steve was now pursing his lips and making loud wet kissing noises as he advanced, clutching his throat and staggering like a zombie. The chant grew in volume. “Kiss him! Kiss him! KISS HIM!” John put a hand over his face, remembering (and not for the first time) that he was just a little bit useless when it came down to controlling kids.

“That is quite enough,” came a quiet voice from the doorway. Quiet, but full of calm authority. John winced slightly into his palm before looking over apologetically as there was almost immediate silence. Lex Harrison, the director of Abbott House, was looming there and surveying the room with clear disapproval. At almost six foot tall, she towered over them all and it took John’s conscious effort not to cower slightly as some of the younger kids were doing. “Now, does someone want to tell me what is going on in here?” she asked, pale green eyes focusing in on where Charlie was laying sprawled across a group of 13 year old girls. Charlie scrambled up and off to the back of the room as fast as possible.

“Sorry about this, Ms. Harrison,” John said once the silence had stretched on a bit too long. “The kids’... enthusiasm got a bit much for them I think.” The stern gaze was turned on him then, and his jovial smile wilted under it.

“Enthusiasm for first aid training?” she asked, stepping further into the room and crossing her arms. Her hair was styled into a short curled bob and she was wearing a dark blue pant suit, dress shirt and tie, with an incongruous pair of Converse All Stars. Hardly the ‘orphanage mistress’ of old, but seriously intimidating nonetheless.

“Well… sort of…” he said, trailing off.

“Please, Miss,” Charlie said from the back of the room. He sounded far less arrogant, and a lot younger. “It wasn’t Dr. Watson’s fault, Miss. We were just messing about.”

“Hmmm,” Miss Harrison made a noise: part disbelief, part derision. “Well, if you can’t take these classes seriously, perhaps we won’t be able to invite Dr. Watson back.”

There was a vague susurrus of upset from the crowd of children at this, but none were brave enough to voice it. She stared them down for a few seconds more. John marvelled at her control of the room - their attention was absolutely riveted on her.

“If,” she started after some time, and there was a collective intake of breath. “If you can behave yourself for the rest of this session, and if Dr. Watson gives me a favorable report, then I will consider letting these sessions continue.” John was gratified to see a few quick smiles in the room before they were wiped away. “But,” Miss Harrison said, again leaving a dark pause for emphasis, “but, if I hear any more of the kind of ridiculous commotion that was going on in this room five minutes ago again, then those responsible will not like what happens next. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss Harrison,” came a chorus of obedient voices.

“Excellent,” she purred, then nodded briskly and strode out of the room. John walked slowly to the open door and closed it quietly, turning to look back at the kids with wide-eyes. There were a couple of sniggers. John exaggerated his expression more, and full-on giggles broke out across the room. He knew he was hamming it up, but a room full of kids laughing with him was far preferable to a room of them laughing at him.

“You should try your kiss of life on Miss Harrison, Dr. Watson,” risked Steve from a back corner. John blushed, turning back to the dummy on the table.

“Hush, now, you lot. Come on let’s get this finished. So, you clear the airway…”

****************************************************************

John smiled as he wandered into the concrete yard at the chaos around them. After Miss Harrison’s departure, the kids had tried their best to pay attention and be serious, but it was obvious that all they really wanted to do was run around outside on this strangely mild November day. As soon as he had declared the workshop over he had needed to flatten himself against the wall as they all tried to get out there en masse. On his way out with the dummy safely back in its holdall, he couldn’t help but pause and laugh at their antics.

The kids at Abbott House were orphans, abandoned, or displaced… sometimes all three. Some of them stayed full time; some came and went via various other institutions. Many already had juvenile criminal records and made unhealthy lifestyle choices, to put it mildly. John had been volunteering for a couple hours a week for a month already, and while he was still struggling with how to control so many kids at once, he was happy that he was making some headway.

“Think fast, Dr. Watson!” came a shout and John reacted instinctively; he dropped the holdall, deflected the basketball aimed at his head and sent it spinning back, fast as a bullet, in the direction it came from. There was an ‘oomph’ and one of the older girls went down clutching it, ending up sitting on the floor shaking her hand in amazement. John was breathing hard.

Perhaps not that much headway, then.

There was a pregnant pause where it could have gone either way, then,

“That was AWESOME, Dr. Watson!” It was Charlie, who was gaping from the fallen girl to John and back again.

“Yeah, that was some throw,” said the girl, jumping back to her feet apparently none the worse for wear. John took a few more calming breaths, grimacing in what might be mistaken for a smile as he turned away and picked up his holdall.

“Dr. Watson?”

“Oh, Miss Harrison. Sorry about that,” John said, gesturing back to where the kids were squaring off against each other. “And about before, the noise,” he added. Out here, she was even more striking - a half-head taller than him even in her All Stars, shirt and tie giving her an edgy androgynous look. But there was one difference - she was smiling. It changed her whole face.

“You must call me Lex, please,” she laughed, patting his arm. “You’ve been coming here, what? Three weeks?”

“It’s a month now, actually,” he said, smiling back.

“Part of the family,” she said with a wink. “Oh and you should have seen your face earlier today! You looked as guilty as the kids!” John felt himself flush.

“Yeah, well…” he mumbled. Lex laughed again, and she used her whole body to do it, bouncing slightly through her knees.

“I thought you were a soldier?” she said, not unkindly.

“Well, yeah I was. But I was also a pretty naughty kid at school, you know? When anyone uses that ‘teacher voice’, I’m just right back there,” he admitted. “Plus, the kids have pretty much got me wrapped around their little fingers,” he said, nodding his head back towards them.

“Don’t have any of your own, then?” she asked, obviously angling. John stood a little taller, surprised by her sudden attention.

“Actually yeah, I do. One. Rosie. She has me wrapped around her little finger too, probably down to her mother not being with us,” he said, hoping to get this key information out as fast as possible. “But she’s gone off on her gap year. Nineteen already, don’t know where the time went.”

“Nineteen!” Lex echoed. “You must have had her very young?” John absolutely preened at this though he tried to push it down.

“Not that young,” he said. “I’m already forty-six,” he added, hoping that this was what she had really wanted to know. She grinned at him.

“Forty-seven,” she said, gesturing at herself demurely.

“Get out of it,” he said, disbelieving. It was only half fake - she really did look amazing for her age. He suspected that he did not.

“Oi! Get a room!” came a shout from the kids, and John flinched as the basketball almost slammed into Lex’s head, though she caught it at the last second. She narrowed her eyes and the amiable woman was replaced again by a vision of authority.

“Oh it’s like that, is it?” she said smoothly, spinning the ball once in her hand. Then she flashed a lightning fast grin at John, so sudden he wondered if he imagined it, while she leaped past him. Her legs were so long she was upon the luckless group of kids in mere seconds, but then she bounced the ball, turned, and _ran up_ the corner walls of the yard in two jumps, to then slam the ball through the metal hoop as she landed in a crouch on the balls of her feet.

John tried to remember how to close his mouth. There was stunned polite applause from the kids and other volunteers who had caught the display. Lex straightened her tie, flipped her hair then took a little bow before striding back over to John, who worried he was staring at her in the manner of a concussed goldfish.

“Not bad for my age, hmmm?” she said, eyes sparkling.

“Uh… no,” said John, blinking rapidly. “No, not bad at all.” He was suddenly aware of his scruffy jeans, old jumper, and the slightly paunchy body that was under it. He was not the fit soldier he used to be. However, Lex was still smiling, so he gave it a go and smiled back. At least his hair was staying up the way he styled it.

“Anyway,” she said, “I just wanted to come and thank you, for what you’re doing with the kids. It’s really good for them to learn about their health but also to see more adults in different roles around the place.”

“Oh well, yeah. ‘Course. You’re welcome,” he said. ‘Smooth, Watson,’ he thought to himself, annoyed. “It’s good for me too. Helps me miss my girl less. And you know, anything for the kids,” he added, smiling what he hoped was a sincere yet roguish smile. It felt like it had been years since he flirted with anyone… then again, it probably had, he realized with a jolt.

“Actually,” Lex said, pulling him gently by the forearm towards the gate, “there might be something else you can do, if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience.”

“Oh yeah?” John asked, feeling warmed by this. “Happy to do what I can,” he said.

“That’s great. Well basically, we have this fundraising event on Christmas Day. The kids all make crafts and we get vendors in selling hot chocolate, it’s like a mini Christmas Fair. We’re always trying to raise money, and Christmas… well, this sounds bleak but Christmas is quite the money-maker.” She turned so they were facing each other, and leaned against the gate post.

“Right,” John said, trying to get his brain to think of anything aside from, ‘this Valkyrie might actually be interested in me!’ “Abbott House is low on funds, then?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, suddenly serious. “This place is prime real estate, middle of London, it’s listed… they just keep raising the rents. It’s going to cost us three hundred and fifty thousand next year.”

“Geez. That’s mental! Can’t someone help, the government…”

“Oh, we do get help. Subsidies and tax support and donations and all that. But it still might get to the point where we have to up and leave. Go to the country somewhere.” She looked away from him then, hand on the knot of her tie. She was watching the kids being shepherded back inside the building as a light drizzle was beginning to fall.

“Wouldn’t it be good for the kids though?” John asked. “Living in the country, I mean?”

“No,” she sighed, turning back to him. They both leaned against the gatepost now as the rain picked up. “Here, the kids get internships, we get varied volunteers, there are opportunities, education, jobs. Plus these are city kids. If Abbott House isn’t here, where would the city kids go?” She sighed again, then rallied herself. “Anyway, so that’s why we have our fundraisers, and that’s where you might be able to help.” She leaned closer to him. John wished he’d brought an umbrella, but she seemed unperturbed.

“We need as much as we can in the way of draws, on that day, you see? So we try and get a few local celebrities in. Then we get more crowds,” she said. John nodded, feeling a bashful smile spread over his face.

“So, you want me to come because…”

“Because you can bring Sherlock Holmes with you.” John felt his smile abruptly freeze.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he echoed. Lex sensed the change in mood and crowded closer. John felt a cold raindrop find its way down the back of his neck.

“Well… yes? Sorry, I thought you two worked together?”

John sighed.

“No no, we do. You’re right, we do work together. I just thought… never mind. Sherlock Holmes. Right.” He stepped back and swung the holdall over his shoulder. His sock informed him that he had just stepped into a puddle. Lex looked worried.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped…” and suddenly John felt like a horrible human being.

“No. You didn’t.” He looked up at the solid old building, heard the shouts of the kids from inside. “You’re doing a great job here,” he said. She gave him a tentative smile, still obviously thrown by his rapid shift in mood. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try, OK? I’ll see if I can get him to agree to come on Christmas Day.”

“Oh, that would be just wonderful Dr. Watson!”

“John, please,” he said. “I’ll see you next week,” he added as he turned away. He shook his soaked foot as he walked away, no cabs in sight, the rain flattening his grey hair down over his head.

*******************************************

“I just like looking at pretty women!”

Lestrade and John were verbally sparring in the corner of the office, and Sherlock rolled his eyes while trying to tune them out. In times past he would have forced them from the room with his barbed tongue, but age was starting to make him mellow - more’s the pity. Age and a wealth of experiences both good and bad that would fill several ‘normal’ people’s lifetimes.

Sherlock had never wanted to be normal.

He crouched down, looking carefully at the chair legs in front of him while the noise continued unabated.

“Well sure,” John said in reply to Lestrade. “And it’s fine to like looking at pretty women. Who doesn’t? But probably not when you’re on a date with one already. Plus, one who likes collecting old vinyl as much as you do! Why were you even paying any attention to another woman?”

“I couldn’t help it,” Lestrade said, sounding genuinely confused. “This curvy young thing breezes right past me, two inches away, right? In a red leather dress. Red leather, John!” John laughed in commiseration.

“Still not supposed to look at another woman when you’re on a date. I’m with Claire on this one.”

“Sherlock, help me out here,” said Lestrade, and Sherlock looked up at him, eyebrow raised. “Yeah, OK, nevermind,” added Lestrade hastily. John laughed again, and Sherlock felt himself getting irritated.

“If you two don’t mind, I am trying to solve a murder over here,” he said grumpily. There was blessed silence, and he tilted the chair back to look under the legs. Ah-hah!

“It was the brother,” he said, abruptly standing up, satisfied.

“What? How do you know?” Sherlock took a deep breath in order to explain to them how the missing rubber sticker from the base of the chair had been employed in blocking the locking mechanism of the door to the… when he was thrown off-track by his phone ringing.

_You are somebody that I don't know, but you're taking shots at me like it's Patrón..._

He stared down at the pocket of his Belstaff. The song continued, and he looked up blankly at John.

“Oh no,” John said, palms raised to warn him off. “No, I am not getting your phone from your pocket, you lazy git.”

“Taylor Swift?!” exclaimed Lestrade, amused.

“I’m multifaceted,” snapped Sherlock, still looking at John.

“No,” John repeated.

“But it’s ringing,” Sherlock said, aware of a slight whine to his voice. “People don’t ring me, they text.”

_You need to calm down, you're being too loud..._

Lestrade let out a gusty sigh of general disbelief. The song stopped abruptly, and Sherlock breathed easier. He was about to start his stream of deductions anew when…  
_You are somebody that I don't know, but you're taking shots at me like it's Patrón..._

...the phone rang again. He looked back at his pocket, brow furrowed.

“Oh, for god’s sake!” John exclaimed, marching over and reaching into his pocket. “You are the most insufferable, idiotic…. Hello? No, this is John Watson,” he said, eyeing Sherlock who had stepped away at this reprieve. “No he’s… indisposed. Can I take a message? The Louvre? On this number? Right yes, OK. Thanks.”

“The Louvre? Why the hell are they calling you?” Lestrade asked, folding his arms. Sherlock shrugged, looking at John.

“They just said they want to discuss something with you and that you should get back to them,” he said huffily, all but flinging the phone back towards him. “Twenty five bloody years and you still can’t answer your own bloody phone!” Sherlock pocketed the phone, wincing.

“Could be fun,” Lestrade suggested. “Trip to Paris?”

“Absolutely not,” said Sherlock, scowling now.

“Dunno anything about the Louvre,” Lestrade mused as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “Except for the Mona Lisa, of course,” he added.

“Another pretty woman,” John snarked, and Lestrade gave a rueful little laugh.

“Or a pretty man,” Sherlock said, beginning to stride from the room.

“You what?” asked John.

“The Mona Lisa? Previously thought to be based on Lisa Gherardini, common thought supposes it was actually based on Da Vinci’s male lover, Gian Giocomo Caprotti.”

“You’re having me on,” said John, apparently astonished.

“Nope,” said Sherlock, opening the front door of the house and glancing up and down the street.

“Huh,” said John, before turning back towards Lestrade. “Looks as though you might like looking at pretty men, too,” he said in a teasing tone.

“No surprise there,” Sherlock said under his breath.

“What?”

“What?”

He and John glared at each other.

“Alright you two, knock it off,” said Lestrade, long-suffering. “And for the record, I don’t really care if they’re male, female, or something in between if they are going to smile at me like that.” He looked a little bashful and made a show of fumbling around for the keys in his pocket. Sherlock stared pointedly at John, who glared harder at him for a second. Then,

“Or dressed in red leather?” John asked casually. Lestrade looked up, surprised. Then he grinned.

“Too right my son!” It all became very jocular and innuendo-laden then, and Sherlock strode away to find a cab before his eyes rolled right back into his skull. Now he was going to have to write his deductions down in a report - how tedious.

***********************************

Sherlock and John had been getting along very well the past few years. When Rosie was very young it had been a bit of a tumultuous time - there was always some scheduling issue, some crisis, or some mad axe-murderer or serial-killer to contend with. Of course, some of those were nothing to do with John raising a child, Sherlock was gracious enough to acknowledge in his head. Things had settled eventually into some kind of routine though, with John and Rosie back in 221B (and eventually, C), John balancing his medical career with assisting Sherlock, and Sherlock balancing his cases with not murdering his brother. Yes, there had been that thing with Stonehenge, and sure, there was that dodgy business with the Prime Minister, but overall they all got along as smoothly as an ex-army doctor with a love of danger and a sociopathic detective with a love of crime possibly could. Two best friends, against the rest of the world.

However, since Rosie had grown up and become more independent, Sherlock had noted a growing melancholy in his doctor. He was becoming… restless, for want of a better word. There had been no truly noteworthy cases for a couple of years, no truly devious criminals, and John seemed to be looking for… something. Sherlock was mildly concerned that the man might even start to consider dating again, though thankfully that hadn’t happened… yet.

John needed something though, that became even more clear once Rosie bid a stoic farewell at the airport to set off on her gap year. Just like her father, she had held herself together remarkably well - until John had presented her with a parting gift of a framed photo of the three of them, after which it had all gotten a little… damp.

After considering the matter, Sherlock had started to wonder if perhaps he didn’t need something else, too. He was forty-four now, no kind of advanced age, but also not one where he relished the idea of rooftop chases anymore. He had found himself pondering the future more and more - a future he had not really considered would even exist, not before he had met John. He had assumed he would meet some kind of ridiculous and sticky end long before this, and yet here they were.

They just needed some kind of distraction, that’s all it was.

“So when am I going to meet the lovely John?” asked Diego. His Chilean accent gave the ‘J’ something extra, but it was the purring innuendo that had Sherlock bristling and dragged him out of his thoughts.

“Stop that,” he snapped, jumping up and striding into the kitchen with a swirl of indignant dressing-gown.

“Stop what?” Diego said, laughing. He was sprawled artfully over the couch in 221B as if made out of rubber. He was one of those people who could make himself look at home on a pile of concrete bricks, or in the middle of busy street-crossing. ‘Dishevelled rogue’ would not be an inaccurate description.

“You know what,” Sherlock sighed, pouring them both a new cup of tea.

“I didn’t say anything,” Diego purred, then laughed again. “I just want to meet him, darling - it’s been years.”

“Yes, yes I know,” Sherlock groused. It was not the first time that Diego had made this complaint.

“Well, what’s the problem? Afraid I’ll be too much for him?” asked Diego suggestively. He twirled his moustache and raised his other hand to fall just-so over his head, head thrown back to show off his throat, eyes sparkling. Sherlock was not impressed.

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “Yes, I think you might be ‘too much’ for my ‘not gay’ best friend.”

“I’m not going to eat him,” Diego said, mock-wounded. He sat up, shaking out his hair, attempting to look contrite. “I’ll be on my very best behavior.” He widened his eyes, all-innocence.

“Has that ever worked on anyone?” Sherlock asked curiously, settling back into his chair. Diego grinned at him impishly, taking the cup of tea without offence.

“All the time, darling, all the time.”

There was a sudden commotion at the door, then John appeared, hands full of shopping and face full of surprise. Sherlock knew his face must be mirroring it.

“You’re… back,” he said lamely. John raised both eyebrows at the uncharacteristic stating of the obvious. Sherlock could have hit himself - he had been so distracted with Diego he hadn’t even heard John on the stairs.

“Yeah well…” John said, staring a moment more at Diego, who was watching procedures with undisguised interest. John shook himself. “Harry cancelled last minute. Something came up with one of her kids.” Harriet Watson had been employed as a youth counsellor for some time now, a fact Sherlock only retained as it threw occasional hiccoughs into her (and therefore John’s) schedule. It was she who had found a recent volunteering opportunity for John as well. Sherlock hadn’t considered that her unreliability might be a factor this evening, and he thought furiously of how he was going to play the situation. Diego, unfortunately, was extremely difficult to predict.

The man in question rose from the couch with an innate elegance that always captured people’s attention. He stalked over to John and held out his hand, stepping just an inch over where an acceptable distance would be and making use of his height, ignoring the shopping bags. “Diego Silvestre. You must be John Watson, so lovely to meet you.” John hesitated for a moment, blinking up at him, then set his bags on the floor, taking his hand a little dubiously.

“Yes, that’s right. Nice to meet you. And ah, are you… a client?” he asked, glancing over at Sherlock.

“Oh no, doctor,” Diego laughed, still holding John’s hand. “No, we’re old friends, Sherlock and I.” Sherlock folded his arms, irritated. Diego could make literally anything sound lewd, and had absolutely no trouble with injecting an R-rated film amount into ‘old friends’. John’s eyebrows were both raised and Sherlock could see he was wondering how he could politely extricate his hand.

“Diego was just leaving,” said Sherlock, walking over as well and retrieving Diego’s leather jacket.

“Was I?” laughed Diego, completely unruffled. “Hmmm, I suppose I was.” He finally let go of John’s hand, touch lingering. “So nice to meet you, Doctor Watson,” he said, then turned and winked at Sherlock. Sherlock resisted a very strong urge to smack him.

“Uh… yeah,” said John, stepping back as Sherlock all but shoved Diego towards the door. “Old friends?... What is it that you do?” There was an edge to his voice that Sherlock didn’t like, so he kept shepherding Diego towards the top of the stairs.

“He’s a ballet dancer,” said Sherlock, in a business-like tone. “Retired.”

At that, Diego hopped up to sit on the bannister, raised one foot on to the top with a bended knee, and slid all the way down to land gracefully by the front door. He stood and took a theatrical bow, looking up at them and grinning. Sherlock glared at him, hoping he suddenly had the power make people burst into flames.

“It’s true,” Diego said, opening the front door. “I was a ballet dancer. Now though, I do something a bit more interesting.” He kissed his hand and blew it up the stairs, then finally left. Sherlock grimaced as the door closed, seeing a lot of awkward questions in his future. There was a pause while he and John both continued to stare downwards.

“Who the hell was that?” John eventually said, tone accusatory.

“Diego Silvestre,” Sherlock said, heading back inside, feeling put-upon. “Chilean ballet dancer, and master-thief.”

*******************************************************

John banged his way around the kitchen as he put various items away, knowing he was being ridiculous but somehow unable to stop it.

“I told you,” Sherlock said patiently where he was watching from the kitchen doorway. “I met him years ago when I was living in South America. He used to be a ballet dancer.” John slammed the fridge door as much as was possible.

“And now he’s a thief,” he stated, grabbing the next bag and stomping over to the opposite cupboards.

“Well… yes. He’s very good at it,” Sherlock said.

“Oh well, of course,” groused John. “You would only know the really good thieves,” he snapped.

“What ever is the matter?” asked Sherlock, arms folded. John paused, attempting to get his thoughts in order.

“The matter, Sherlock, is that just when I think I might know you, there are no more surprises, then this pops up. ‘Oh, by the way, here is my good friend, the suave ballet-dancing thief that I have literally never mentioned once.’” he said.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Sherlock said, turning away. This only made John more annoyed, as he knew he was right. “Of course you know me.”

John put both hands down on the table, attempting to calm down. He watched Sherlock go and sit in his chair, knees up under his chin. He looked a bit down-trodden, which helped to take the edge off the harsh feelings clawing up John’s throat.

“I know,” John tried, but it still came out a bit hard. He tried again. “I do know you.” That was better. Sherlock gave him a distrustful look. “I just… I wish I knew more, I guess,” he admitted. “Twenty-five years we’ve been friends, Sherlock,” he said, not knowing where to go from there. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, and his face softened slightly.

“Yes. A long time.” He smiled a little then, and John felt the last of the annoyance flow away. “And he’s not a ‘good friend’”, Sherlock said, nose wrinkling. “He’s just in London for a few days and came for a visit.”

“Why is he…”

_You are somebody that I don't know, but you're taking shots at me like it's Patrón..._

John was interrupted by the ringtone of Sherlock’s phone, which was apparently under the sink. He shot Sherlock an exasperated look as he retrieved it.

“It kept ringing!” Sherlock said in explanation, sinking back into his chair and away from John as if he were holding a venomous snake.

“That’s what phones do, Sherlock!” John said, grinding his teeth as Sherlock literally put both hands behind his back. “You know what? Fine,” he snapped, then answered the phone and put it onto speaker-mode, holding it directly in front of Sherlock’s chin. “Hello,” John said in an exaggeratedly polite tone. “This is John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes is here with me. How can we help you?”

“Mr. Holmes?” asked a deep bass voice, made slightly tinny from the speaker. The ‘H’ of ‘Holmes’ was lost somewhere in the French pronunciation. Sherlock’s neck was at an odd angle as he tried leaning even further back. John kicked him.

“Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes,” the detective said, rubbing at his shin and swatting at John’s arm. John was unmoved, used to these antics.

“Mr. Holmes, this is Henri Bernard and I am the curator of the Louvre Museum in Paris.” There was a pause and Sherlock looked from the phone and back to John as if to say, ‘So?’

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Bernard,” said John, not even attempting to get the pronunciation correct as he knew he would mess it up. He kicked Sherlock again, who started trying to wriggle out of the chair to escape.

“Mr. Holmes, there is an item of great value that is going to be displayed in the museum between Christmas and New Year. It is of great, great value, do you understand?”

“Yes?” Sherlock said as John shoved the phone closer to him. Sherlock scowled, grabbing John’s arm with both hands and starting to twist it away from him. John put one knee on the arm of the chair to get more leverage, grabbing the back to hold on.

“And this item, Mr. Holmes, we have heard that there is one out there who has designs on stealing it. This must not be allowed to happen!” The Frenchman sounded extremely impassioned, something that was a bit lost on John as Sherlock was attempting to flip him over the back of the armchair.

“So don’t display it?” said Sherlock, the unspoken, ‘idiot’ clear in his tone even as he narrowly avoided John’s elbow to the chest by sliding forward and twisting.

“Mr. Holmes, that is not an option,” Mr. Bernard did not sound amused, dropping his words with calm dignity. Out of patience himself, John shoved Sherlock off the edge of the chair where he was perched, smirking as he landed with a bit of an ‘oof’ on the carpet.

“Mr. Bernard,” John said, “Can you put the details in an email and send it to me? I’m sure Mr. Holmes would be happy to consult on the situation.” Sherlock took the opportunity to grab one of his ankles, and he fell backwards fully into the armchair but recovered and pulled his legs up and out of reach.

“No no no, Doctor Watson,” came the voice from the phone, smoothly scandalized. “This cannot have any written record, do you understand?” Sherlock was stood up and backing away, arms folded, hair fluffed out like an enraged Pyrenees, shaking his head furiously. John settled on the chair and crossed his legs, putting on a picture of ease. “We must meet to discuss it,” continued Mr. Bernard. “I am staying at The Four Seasons, can you and Mr. Holmes please come here tomorrow at noon?” Sherlock shook his head even more. John ignored him.

“We would be delighted, Mr. Bernard,” said John, grimly. Sherlock raised his hands and looked towards the ceiling as if cursing at a cruel deity, and stalked off to his bedroom. “Can you at least tell me what the item is that you plan to display?” There was a pause and a brief conversation in French on the other end, while Sherlock’s door slammed shut.

“It is _Winter_ , Doctor Watson. We will have _Winter_ in the Louvre.”

*******************************************

“It’s an egg, John,” Sherlock groused staring out the window of the cab. “A crystal _egg_.”

“A Fabergé egg, Sherlock,” said John, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea how much those things are worth?”

“Valued at around 60 million pounds today,” said Sherlock, letting his head rest on the glass. “And nobody even stole it yet.” John couldn’t help but smile at Sherlock’s morose tone at the dissatisfying state of the criminal classes.

“Yeah, but sixty million pounds…” said John, unable to comprehend this amount, or that something so small and fragile could be worth it.

“It’s not like they are going to give _us_ sixty million pounds, John,” said Sherlock, turning up his coat collar. It was cold in the back of the cab, and their breath was starting to fog up the windows.

“Well, no,” agreed John. “But if they are as worried as they sounded about someone stealing it, I’m sure they’ll be offering a generous fee for your services.”

“I’m not an expert on stealing, John,” huffed Sherlock, getting out his phone.

“But you know people who are,” said John, still feeling a bit needled that Sherlock had this ‘friend’ about whom John knew nothing. “Anyway isn’t it a bit suspicious that your master-thief friend shows up out of the blue, right when someone wants to consult us about securing a valuable object?” Sherlock glared over his phone at him.

“Diego has been here since Monday. They didn’t even call us until Wednesday, and now it is Friday. Plus, he wouldn’t steal a _crystal egg_ , John. Who is he going to sell it to?”

“Well I’m sure you know Diego’s tastes better than I do,” said John, turning away. He felt his ears go red as he replayed his comment. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to detect the voice of the green-eyed monster, though thankfully he sailed right past it.

“It’s not even nice looking,” Sherlock said, turning his phone and showing John a photo of the famed decorative item.

“Yeah well,” said John, privately agreeing but not ready to admit it, “it’s probably carved out of diamonds or something.”

“The exterior of the egg resembles frost and ice crystals formed on clear glass.” Sherlock was reading from the screen. “It is studded with 1,660 diamonds, and is made from quartz, platinum, and orthoclase. The miniature surprise flower basket is studded with 1,378 diamonds and is made from platinum and gold…”

“Yes, right,” John said, before he could really get on a roll. “Like I said, diamonds. Wonder who owns it.”

“Oh, it’s Hamad’s,” said Sherlock, turning off the phone and putting it back in his pocket.

“...Hamad’s?”

“Hmm yes. Hamad bin Khalifa Al Thani, the Emir of Qatar.” John gaped at him.

“The Emir of Qatar,” he echoed, feeling his face start to go red. “And you call him, ‘Hamad’?”

Sherlock looked over at his angry tone, surprised.

“Well… he did tell me to call him that,” he said slowly.

“The Emir of Qatar,” John said again, eyes narrowed. “Just another ‘good friend’, no doubt.” Sherlock pulled a face, lips twisted.

“Hardly, John. I helped him with a case, that’s all.”

“When was this?” John pushed. Sherlock frowned at him.

“While I was… travelling,” he said, making a vague gesture. John snorted and turned to glare out of his window.

“When you were dead, you mean.”

“John…”

“I know, I know. It was all for the best, _I know_ , alright? I just… nevermind.”

The cab was silent for some time.

“I don’t understand,” said Sherlock, hesitantly. John kept his eyes towards the window. “Hamad has never let the egg be displayed in public before. Why now?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” John said blandly. The cab was pulling to a stop outside the hotel.

“I can’t just ask him, because we aren’t _friends_ , John,” said Sherlock, his tone sharp. John made to get out of the cab. A hand on his arm stopped him. “I don’t have friends,” said Sherlock, quieter now, but still intense. “I’ve just got one.”

John sighed, turning back and taking in the look on his face. Over the years he had come to be able to really read Sherlock, and he wasn’t faking now. He was anxious, as he always was when John got really annoyed with him.

“Alright,” he said, patting Sherlock’s glove-covered hand and trying to let the old hurts go. “Alright. And… just ignore me, yeah? I’m being a berk.” Sherlock smiled briefly, prompting John to go on. “And maybe your Emir 'acquaintance’ will come in useful with this. Maybe he’s the reason they called you in?” Sherlock’s smile was replaced by his contemplative look, the one he got when he was tracking too many possibilities at once. He didn’t respond, just squeezed John’s arm once more before exiting the cab.

************************************************

Sherlock was getting a bit irritated. Mr. Bernard and his people had summoned them to a gaudy monstrosity of a hotel then left them waiting in the lounge. The Amaranto, apparently lux for what was essentially a waiting room, was covered in different shades and textures of velvet and brocade, and all of that combined with the dark brown walls and floors put Sherlock in mind of sitting in a rather expensive coffin. Almost as soon as they had been shown into the lounge, John’s phone had rung and he was now pacing up and down the opposite end of the room, shooting Sherlock the occasional not-so-surreptitious glance. In any case, Sherlock was not getting nearly as much attention as this excursion had first promised, and he knew he was starting to bristle like a slighted dowager duchess.

Someone important, Sherlock mused, watching John pace back and forth, still chatting on the phone. Or at least, someone of current importance to John. Colleague? No, if there were an emergency then John would have left already after exchanging the pertinent information on the phone. Not Harriet either, as he would not have moved away and out of Sherlock’s hearing if it were her. No, whoever it was, was someone Sherlock did not know…

Romantic interest?

With a huff, Sherlock got out his own phone and pulled up more information about the Winter egg, though it hardly kept his attention. If he was right, and there was some new… flirtation, in John’s life, then that rather threw a spanner in the works.

Actually it threw a spanner, a chisel and a hammer in there, too.

He risked another glance at John. The man had one hand on his waist, had stopped pacing but he was tapping one of his feet against the leg of an appallingly upholstered chaise-lounge. Nervous about the conversation then. Things were not settled. She (was it a she?) wanted something, and John wasn’t sure he wanted to give it. John laughed (fake) at something the person said, and gave a little bounce through the knees as he did so. Sherlock raised an eyebrow - he had never seen John do that before.

Who was this… interloper?

John signed off the call then turned and looked directly at him. Caught, Sherlock shrugged and pocketed his phone as John walked briskly back to perch on the neighboring chair. He was all military efficiency - definitely nervous then, but that meant that somehow Sherlock had some sway over the situation? He sat forward, intrigued.

“That was Lex,” John started, also sitting further forward. “Lex Harrison, the director of Abbott House?”

“‘A terrifying cliff-face of a human-being’”, Sherlock quoted, mimicking John’s voice. He could clearly remember when John had said so around a month prior. He had just returned to the flat from his first stint at the orphanage and had been run into the ground by the little horrors, mentioning Ms. Harrison in passing with a kind of awed shudder. Sherlock had discounted her immediately as being of no importance due to John’s negative reaction, but apparently, things had changed. Sherlock felt his lips twist as if he had bitten into a lemon as he observed a light blush travel slowly up from the neckline of John’s jumper.

Spanner, chisel, hammer - plus the whole damn toolbox, apparently.

“I might have said that, yes,” grumbled John, rubbing one hand over his face. “We got talking a little more last time I was there though,” he continued, and there was already a trace of something cajoling in his tone. There was definitely some part for Sherlock to play in whatever it was going on between the ‘cliff-face’ and his doctor. He relaxed a little at that, leaning back into a more open posture. John was drawn even further forward, perched now on the edge of his seat, both feet planted on the floor. Sherlock smiled to himself.

“What does she want from me?” he asked evenly. John blinked and opened his mouth to ask, thought better of it, and closed it again. “It’s quite obvious,” Sherlock said, purposefully letting his eyes wander the room as if the whole place were far more interesting than whatever John was all tied in knots over.

“The orphanage is in financial trouble, Sherlock…”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock interrupted, snapping his eyes back to John. “It’s a charity based in the middle of London.” John took a deep breath, apparently for fortitude, and Sherlock closed his mouth with a click.

“Alright, genius,” said John. “So they have a fundraising thing on Christmas Day. She asked if you might put in an appearance, so they can get more people to go.” Sherlock cringed, steepling his fingers together as a barrier between them. Let John think he really needed to give this the hard sell.

“‘Put in an appearance’? What does that mean?”

“It just means be there, I think. I’m going to ask Greg to come too, a bit of community outreach. Actually I think if you agree to help out they’ll let you decide how you want it to go. They just think having ‘the great Sherlock Holmes’ there will be interesting to people.” Sherlock looked closely at John, having picked up a thread of… something, in his tone. Envy? John was not one for the limelight - on those occasions it had been left to him to speak to the press, he had loathed it. Wistfulness? Unhappy that the ‘cliff’s’ attentions were on his connection to Sherlock rather than to John himself? Likely.

While maintaining his almost blank outer expression, the Sherlock on the inside did a little happy-dance.

“When are you going next?” he asked, staring at his fingers.

“This… this Saturday, December 5th,” John said, a little thrown. “But you don’t have to…”

“I’ll come along. Take a look at the place. Speak with this… Lex… myself.” He said her name the same way one might say, ‘dung heap’. “I will not agree to any overdone Christmas-tat display, so let’s see what else she has in mind.”

“But…”

“John, John, John,” Sherlock said, leaning forwards again so he could pat John’s hand with his gloved one and to catch his eyes. “She wants me to be involved, I’ll get involved. That’s good, isn’t it?” Sherlock ensured to make his eyes extra wide and soulful for that last part - but not too much. Better not to overdo it.

...Apparently still too much though, as John peered down at his hand then back up at his face, eyes narrowing.

“What are you up to?” he asked bluntly.

Thankfully Sherlock was spared from having to answer by the arrival of Mr. Bernard and his associates, who swept grandly into the room as if it were not the bourgeois nightmare that Sherlock deemed it to be.

‘What am I up to?’ Sherlock thought to himself as he rose to greet them. ‘Oh my dear John,’ he smirked internally, ‘you have no idea.’

******************************************************

John sat quietly in his too-deep chair and took the occasional note while Henri Bernard and the two men with him explained the situation to Sherlock. After rising to greet them (why must everyone they meet be so damn tall? For a minute John had felt like he were standing in a Spencer Hart-clad forest…), Sherlock had sunk back into his familiar, ‘astonish me’ pose, face almost completely blank, fingers steepled, his aggressive silence allowing Mr. Bernard the space to talk himself hoarse.

Henri Bernard was quite the character. While the two (bodyguards? He hadn’t actually said…) men with him were your common rent-a-gym-rat types, there was a familiar posture and method of movement to Henri that said ‘military’, to John. He kept hitting one fisted hand against his other palm, probably to try and get more of a reaction out of the stoic detective but also betraying the strength he had in his arms. His voice was even deeper than it had seemed on the phone, and that combined with his shaved head, impeccable dress and shining skin, he seemed like an ebony statue come to life.

There was a lull in the conversation and John blinked, suddenly realizing Sherlock was staring at him, one eyebrow raised. Henri continued on talking, but Sherlock’s slightly amused look travelled from John’s face down to John’s hand, where he realized he had been making unconscious patterns in the velvet with his trailing fingers. Ruffled, he quickly smoothed the cloth out so the velvet lay flat, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

“You’re wasting your time,” Sherlock said, turning back and dropping each word like stones across the stream of Henri’s speech. “I am not an expert on jewel robberies. In fact, all I know so far is that this sounds an awful lot like the plot of one of those terrible ocean films that John here forced me to watch last Christmas.” Sherlock waved a hand in John’s direction. Mr. Bernard frowned, peering at John in confusion.

“He means Ocean’s Twelve,” said John quietly, wishing the velvet chair would somehow open up and swallow him. Mr. Bernard’s confusion did not lesson. “It’s about some thieves trying to steal a Fabergé egg from a museum in Rome.”

“I do not watch… popular entertainment,” said Mr. Bernard, his French accent somehow making this even more devastating. He looked between John and Sherlock as if this new insight had drastically lowered them in his estimation.

“Some of it was actually quite good,” said Sherlock, smiling like a shark and dropping his steepled hands. “John particularly liked the part where the rather limber French gentleman danced his way through a web of lasers, didn’t you John?”

“Sherlock…” John groused, raising his notebook and fighting off the impulse to hide his face behind it.

“There is no ‘web of lasers’ in the Louvre!” said Mr. Bernard, bristling.

“Well what’s the point of all this then?” snapped Sherlock. “You’ve gone on and on about ‘historical importance’ and ‘maintaining important international relations’ and ‘important artistic artifact’ and every other bloody thing other than what is actually important!”

“And what is that?” snarled Mr. Bernard. The two associates moved restlessly in their spots standing behind him.

“Who,” Sherlock said, drawing out the sound almost to the point of ridiculous, “... wants to steal this ever-so-important crystal egg?”

There was a pause. John lowered his notebook and sat straighter. Sherlock and Mr. Bernard were sitting in mirrored poses, staring hard at each other. The only difference was that while Henri Bernard seemed on the verge of spitting nails, Sherlock looked like he was just starting to enjoy himself.

“We don’t know,” Bernard finally admitted, sagging. “All we know is that through… certain circles… there are whispers that a person or persons unknown are waiting for the exhibition to open in order to steal the egg.”

“So there might be more than one?” John asked, gesturing at his notebook.

“Yes,” the director said, then looked back at Sherlock. “There are many people in the art world who would love to have the egg in their possession, plus those in other fields for whom it would be a status symbol. A show of power.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It’s a _crystal egg_ ,” he said, shaking his head. “You can buy them wherever little old ladies who like lace doilies and chew strawberry pastilles buy the rest of their trinkets.”

“No, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Bernard. “No. The _Winter_ Fabergé egg was the most expensive of them all, it is one of the most spectacular and valuable objects ever made - there were many hearts broken when it was bought by the Emir of Qatar, eighteen years ago.”

“Hmm yes,” said Sherlock, flippant. “Reasonable enough chap. Good taste in horses. Terrible card-player though.”

John swallowed down a laugh at seeing yet another calm and collected high-flier reduced to gaping like a goldfish when faced with Sherlock’s conversational zigzags.

“Anyway,” Sherlock continued, standing up so suddenly that Mr. Bernard had to lean backwards or get clocked in the face, “as fascinating as all of this is, I keep telling you that you are wasting your time. I solve crimes. There is no crime to solve, therefore you have got the wrong man. John?” He nodded towards the door, and John pocketed his notebook as he stood as well. He knew the prequel to a dramatic exit when he saw one, and was in no mood to be left behind when Sherlock inevitably disappeared off into one of his magical black London cabs.

“Then what do you suggest, Mr. Holmes?” cried Mr. Bernard, exasperated. “We have sophisticated security, we have top-class guards, we have contingency plans, we have all of these things. And yet, we are told, the egg will be stolen the first night it goes on display!”

“When is that?” John asked, keeping one eye on Sherlock.

“December 20th. It will be displayed until January 2nd.”

“Well then, let someone try to steal it before the 20th,” Sherlock said, heading for the door.

“What?”

Sherlock stopped with an audible huff.

“This thing is valued at sixty million pounds, yes? And I’m assuming the insurance is more likely double that?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” said the director, obviously lost.

“Simple then. Let it be known that there will be a replica in its place the week running up to the opening. Offer a reward, say one million pounds. Whoever can steal the replica and explain to you where the gaps in your security are, gets the money.” John looked over at Mr. Bernard as this idea hit home. It actually was quite ingenious, and John smiled over at Sherlock, chuckling at the twitch of a preen the detective made in return.

“That’s… that’s brilliant,” Mr. Bernard admitted.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock with a sigh, opening the door. John hurried after him.

“But, Mr. Holmes, do you think that international thieves would be interested in such a monetary offer?”

Sherlock stopped again, and John nearly ran into him.

“It’s not about the money,” Sherlock said, as if the very notion was abhorrent and Henri Bernard had mortally offended him. “It’s about the _challenge_! After all, people like them and people like us,” he gestured here at himself and John, and it was John’s turn to preen a little, “we all have one thing in common.” He swept through the door, John at his side.

“And what is that?” Mr. Bernard called after them. John grinned.

“We get bored easily!” John snarked over his shoulder, as he and Sherlock exited the room and took off into the December afternoon.

*********************************************

“What do dead bodies smell like?”

“Like old meat left in the bottom of a damp well.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock turned to John, flummoxed. “What?”

“That was one of those questions you shouldn’t answer!” There was a snigger from the assembled children. Sherlock scowled.

“You told me to answer any questions that are educational,” he said.

“And I also said, do not traumatise the kids,” John said sharply.

“They aren’t traumatised,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, then pointed directly at a young girl of around eight years old. “Are you traumatized?”

“What’s traumatized mean?” she asked, twisting her hair around a finger, while John made some kind of strangled sound in the background.

“To feel shocked as a result of a disturbing experience.”

“Oh,” she said, chewing on the end of her hair for a moment and appearing to give this some thought. “...No,” she finally said resolutely, and Sherlock gestured at her triumphantly with an ‘I told you so’ expression shot towards John.

“Yeah I think that’s enough of the Q and A”, was John’s incongruous response, grabbing Sherlock by the elbow and leading him out of the room to a disappointed chorus of ‘Awwwww!’s.

“You never used to mind when I talked to Rosie about crime scenes,” Sherlock groused, yanking his coat sleeve out of John’s grip once they were in the large hall.

“Er, yes I did. I minded, a fat lot of good it did me. But I was also there to balance out the mayhem and murder talk with something a bit more…”

“Normal?” Sherlock said, scathing.

“Light!” John rejoined, glaring.

“Light? You are a doctor, you used to tell her about broken bones and boils and pustules, it was hardly an evening chat with the Easter rabbit!”

“At least the broken bones I told her about were attached to living people!” John shouted, jabbing Sherlock in the chest with one finger.

“Oh and that’s better is it? Also I seem to remember you being involved with most of the mayhem and murder, as you call it. It wasn’t my blog about crime scenes she was reading!”

“Gentlemen!”

Sherlock realised in a rather absent-minded way that when one was absolutely livid and nose-to-nose with an equally enraged John Watson, the vehement red of his angry face really did wonders for the blue of his eyes.

“Hello?” It was the Lex Harrison-cliff.

John blinked, glancing around at the interruption and immediately came over all contrite and humble. It was rather fascinating, in a repugnant sort of way. Powerful, angry, incandescent and dangerous John Watson was replaced by a slightly shorter, less-confident, almost-bumbling and meek Doctor Watson. Sherlock doubted that John even knew he was doing it, but it must be something to do with subconsciously appearing less threatening and therefore…. More attractive? Was that how the minds and attractions of normal people worked?

How ghastly.

Sherlock watched John make a sort of skittish overture to the problem-personified, while internally listing and dismissing ways to take her out of the equation. Quickly. There was something about her, apart from her mere existence, that he didn’t like. Definitely an interesting backstory there. A criminal record? Could be. Unfortunately that was the kind of thing only likely to make John more attracted, more’s the pity.

“... and this is Sherlock Holmes,” John said, quirking a ‘behave’ tense smile back at him. Sherlock turned his cool gaze on the tall woman, staring her directly in the eyes for just a heartbeat too long to be comfortable, then,

“Ms. Harrison!” he gushed, bouncing forward and grabbing her outstretched hand in both of his. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to meet you!” He pumped her hand up and down a couple of times, beaming so widely he knew his face was going to hurt later. “You’re doing wonderful things here, just wonderful!”

“Oh… well… thank you,” she said, a bit bemused but smiling. John, Sherlock noted from the corner of his eye, was not smiling. Excellent.

“Oh you’re welcome, _you’re welcome_ ,” he said, finally letting go of her hand and raising his arms to his sides expansively. “What an accomplishment, truly. And John here tells me you’d like me to get involved on Christmas Day? Well, I’d love to, I really, _really_ would, just _love_ to.”

Miss Harrison’s eyebrows were in danger of touching the ceiling.

“So… you’re interested in charity work, then?” she said, looking confusedly from him to John and back.

“I’m interested in _anything_ that _John_ is interested in!” he said loudly and brightly. He was going for a sort-of brain-damaged cheerleader vibe, and for a moment it seemed to be working. “Wherever he goes, I follow.” Unfortunately he might have gone a tad too far again, as faint lines appeared around the cliff’s eyes with a whiff of closer scrutiny. Yes, there was certainly more to this woman than met the eye.

“How lovely,” she said, on the surface, effusive. Beneath, calculating. She flicked her gaze from Sherlock’s toes up to his hair, as if he were a confusing piece of art. John looked like he was regretting his life choices. “Shall we go through to my office to discuss it?”

“By all means!” Sherlock said, simpering, and gestured that she should lead the way. John gave him a poisonous look as he fell in next to her, Sherlock allowing his face to drop into a sneer as he followed behind. Hateful woman. Of course leave it to John Watson to choose the one place in London to do some charity work that was run by a six foot tall blonde career-criminal and not even notice.

“Mr. Holmes?” came a sardonic voice. Sherlock turned and saw one of the older boys from his brief talk on forensics gesturing at him. “Can I ask you one more thing?” Sherlock motioned for John and the cliff to go on without him for a moment, much as it pained him.

“I’m Charlie,” said the boy once Sherlock and he were away from prying ears.

“You wanted to tell me something, Charlie?” The boy grinned, eyes hard, not a hint of surprise.

“Are you really as good as everyone says you are?” Charlie asked.

“Better.”

“Right… well, keep an eye on Miss Harrison. You might see something interesting,” said the boy, glancing around. Sherlock was impressed.

“Anything specific catching your attention?”

“Well, she’s a stone cold witch,” said Charlie conversationally. “Other than that though, must be difficult for a woman that tall to find suits like that. Can’t be cheap.”

“Custom made,” Sherlock mused.

“Cashmere blend,” Charlie conjectured.

“A stone cold witch, you say?” asked Sherlock, giving Charlie a quick once-over.

“Not like that,” Charlie said with a huff. “With her words. Got all the others scared out of their wits, the things she says.”

“But not you, though?” Sherlock asked carefully. Charlie looked away. “I’ll look into it,” Sherlock said, hearing the promise and knowing Charlie did as well. He made to leave, but Charlie spoke up again.

“You’ll watch out for Doctor Watson?”

“John? Why?” he asked sharply.

“Well she’s after him, isn't she,” Charlie said, glancing around again. “And she shouldn’t be. ‘Cos he’s… he’s good.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock, understanding. “Yes… he is. Don’t worry about it, Charlie. I’ll take care of him.” Charlie gave him a searching look, then nodded.

“Alright,” he said quietly, and slipped off into one of the other rooms.

****************************************

They were into the second week of December when John heard the dreaded words, ‘Christmas Party’ at the surgery. When Rosie was very small and John was very enthusiastic, he had volunteered to dress up as Santa Claus for the family event. Everyone had been delighted, the kids of all the staff had been enchanted, and he only got thrown up on once during the afternoon. Sherlock had found the entire thing hysterical, but John had taken that in stride as par for the course, and the feeling of a good deed well done had warmed him through the rest of the winter. The following year someone had suggested that he might want to do it again. And then the next year. In short order, it became just what he did at these parties - everyone else got a bit sloshed and chatted each other up, stuffing their faces with mince pies, and John sat in a sweaty rented costume in the corner with all their kids while getting acrylic beard-hair caught in his teeth. Getting thrown-up on was a yearly tradition too.

Unfortunately they had already chosen the following Thursday 17th to hold the blasted thing, and he couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough. No doubt Sherlock would find this just as hysterical as he had for the past twelve years. He never actually turned up himself, but John knew he had a photo capturing each and every outing of the hated Santa suit. John privately suspected he was in cahoots with Abdul the ENT specialist to get said photos, but had never been able to prove it.

Dragging himself up the stairs to the flat while pondering if faking a broken leg to get out of being Santa was just a tad melodramatic, he was dismayed to hear a certain lilting voice from the living room within.

“John, darling!” Diego crowed, launching himself across the room for a hug. John sidestepped him so he only got a half of one, feeling momentarily smug as Diego overcompensated and almost toppled over.

“Hello, Diego,” he said crisply, while stepping away. “Still here, are you?”

“You know how John loves to state the obvious,” Sherlock said from his armchair. John smiled at him thinly.

“Yes, well, sometimes it needs to be stated,” he said grimly. He had planned on going straight up to his room to change, but seeing Diego return to their couch and drape himself over it like a 1920’s courtesan, he felt a tad territorial. He had really been hoping that this guy had already oozed back down whatever drain he had oozed out of. “Just passing through?” he asked, standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed. Diego smiled at him, cat-like.

“Sherlock invited me.”

“Sherlock did no such thing,” Sherlock argued, annoyance in his voice, something John was glad of. “I sent you an email and you came here to answer it, instead of writing back like a normal person.”

“Pfft, normal,” Diego said with distaste. “Since when have you cared about what normal people do?” John saw Sherlock glance over at himself for a moment, a light flush stealing into his cheeks, before he quickly looked away again.

“Diego was telling me how he would steal the egg,” Sherlock said, getting up and standing by the mantlepiece. “It’s actually rather ingenious.” John scowled at that. Stupid master thief with his stupid moustache. Of course he was bound to be a genius as well. Probably got a PhD in biochemistry while becoming a professional ballet dancer. Probably doing another one while being a master thief. Probably wouldn’t know what the struggles of real people were if they bit him on the arse.

Probably.

“Go on then,” said John, injecting his tone with enough reluctance to stop a camel in its tracks. “How would you do it?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to bore you, darling,” Diego said airily, then smirking at Sherlock. John was gratified to see Sherlock roll his eyes. “Far more interesting is my offer to your detective here,” Diego went on, eyes twinkling.

“Offer?” John asked sharply. He had not missed the inference of ‘your detective’.

“Diego is trying to get me to go with him to Chile,” Sherlock said evenly. John’s stomach abruptly dropped.

“Chile?” he said faintly.

“Oh, I see what you mean,” laughed Diego. John glared at him.

“For how long?” John asked.

“Oh, as long as it takes,” Diego said mysteriously, and John wanted to punch him right in his handsome face.

“But I’m not going,” Sherlock interjected, and through his surprise John was extremely gratified to see the oily smile slip right off the smug Chilean git’s face.

“What? Why not?” he said, sitting up straight. “You said you’d consider it!” John’s stomach lurched again and he wondered if he’d eaten something dodgy at lunch.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, “But that was before I agreed to help John on Christmas Day.”

Hah! Take that, you ballet-dancing bastard.

Diego just looked confused.

“You’re going to pass on an all-expenses-paid trip to Chile, that you know has a certain… special importance to me… so you can help John… what?” He actually sounded a bit wounded, and John stamped down a rogue curl of pity. It seemed like Diego thought this trip had been in the bag.

“Help him run the Christmas thing at the orphanage,” Sherlock supplied, and Diego snorted, incredulous.

“Seriously? Orphans on Christmas Day?” He stood up, shaking his head as if Sherlock had mightily disappointed him. “How is anyone supposed to argue with that?”

“They aren’t,” John said, smiling a nasty smile. He was also privately amazed that Sherlock was agreeing to the Christmas event, as up until that moment he had continued to prevaricate.

“I am sorry, though,” Sherlock said to Diego, and now it was John’s turn to have the smile slip off his face. “I know it meant a lot to you.” This was extremely uncharacteristic of Sherlock, and John decided he hated this invader even more.

“Yes well, your loss,” Diego said theatrically, heading for the door. “You know what you should do though? You should still get out of this dreary city. Go to Paris. Go over there and see what they’re all going to try out in the Louvre.”

“Hmm. Could be interesting,” Sherlock mused as Diego got his jacket. “Plus they did offer me quite a high fee if I would go in person to look at their security.”

“They did?” asked John, surprised. Sherlock ignored him.

“And you could be back in time for your little … thing… with the orphans,” Diego said, then he turned and gave John a calculating look. “Take your doctor here with you,” Diego suggested.

Your doctor.

Sherlock blinked a little at that. “Oh… well… John is busy this time of year, aren’t you John?” he said, cautiously.

“Too busy to run off to Paris with our gorgeous detective?” Diego said, leaning forward to give Sherlock a goodbye kiss on the cheek while still looking over at John. Sherlock went as still as a statue at the contact.

“He has to be Santa Claus,” he said, a little mechanically. John went over, seething, holding the door open and gesturing meaningfully to the landing as Diego cackled at this new information. How dare this … this lothario, make Sherlock uncomfortable in his own flat? Unless… unless he wasn’t uncomfortable? He shot him a worried glance. As usual, it was very hard to tell, with Sherlock.

“Actually, I don’t this year,” John heard himself lie. He sounded aggressive even by his standards, but didn’t care. “Abdul is going to do it.” Sherlock came back to himself, and gave him a puzzled look.

“Oh,” he said, a bit hesitant. “So… you want to go to Paris?” Was there something hopeful in his voice?

“Yes,” John said, barely considering it.

“Wonderful!” Diego cried, and then he had one hand on each of their elbows. John shook him off. “I’m sure the two of you will have a lovely time! Paris at Christmastime, it’s just magical. So romantic. I’m quite jealous,” he said, heading down the stairs with a wink at John. John abruptly realized he had no idea if he had just won or lost.

“Not trying for the egg yourself then?” he asked as Diego went down the stairs, walking this time.

“No, got something else to take care of,” Diego said. Thankfully he did not blow a kiss at them either.

“Something worth more than a million pounds?” John called skeptically.

“Absolutely,” said Diego, walking out the front door without a backwards glance.

John turned to look at Sherlock, who seemed to look just as flummoxed as he felt.

“So…,” he tried, then swallowed to unstick his throat. “Paris?”

Sherlock gave him a searching look, then smiled a quick smile. “Paris,” he agreed.


	2. Chapter 2

An extremely tedious meeting with Henri Bernard had bled into an even more tedious meeting with Pierre Rousseau, Chief of the Paris police. Tall, wiry and extremely intense, it felt like his eyes were trying to drill holes right through Sherlock’s skull. He also had a nasty conversational habit of addressing everything to Mr. Bernard in French, rather than engaging in the discussion in English. Sherlock wondered what his reaction would be to be called a walking Parisian stereotype. Probably something extremely violent.

“Je ne comprends toujours pas pourquoi vous avez ressenti le besoin de faire venir ces étrangers,” Chief Rousseau said loudly to Mr. Bernard, his voice like a heavy rainstorm. _Why have you brought in these foreigners?_ “Tu ne fais pas confiance à mes hommes?” Sherlock privately thought that, no, obviously Mr. Bernard did not trust Rousseau’s men, that was the whole point. The two were carrying on a full conversation, having (wrongly) deduced that neither Sherlock or John could understand them, so Sherlock got out his phone.

Rousseau is angry that Bernard brought us in. SH.

John’s phone chimed in his hand. He had resorted to scrolling on it ten minutes ago and was obviously bored out of his mind and happy to show it. He raised an eyebrow at his screen but did not look over at Sherlock, merely flicked a finger to set his phone to silent before replying:

_Why would he be angry? It would look pretty crap if the egg got stolen on his watch._

Certainly, but he is saying the very act of bringing in outsiders to help with this matter shows a lack of confidence in the Paris police force. SH.

_There is a lack of confidence ;-)_

Sherlock smirked.

Now Bernard is telling him how amazing I am. SH.

_Well to be fair he doesn’t know you very well yet._

Sherlock scowled.

He called you my assistant. SH.

_Sadly accurate._

No, it isn’t. SH.

_Well then what would you call me?_

Frowning, Sherlock glanced across at John, but he was still looking at his phone.

“Je ne supporterai pas cela!” Rousseau shouted, and Sherlock decided he had had enough.

“If you refuse to support us being here, then we will leave - easy. John, let’s go.” He pocketed his phone and stood up, as did John.

“You… you speak French?” asked Rousseau, taken aback.

“Oui, et comme je l'ai dit, si nous ne sommes pas les bienvenus ici, nous partirons. Je ne souhaite plus perdre votre temps ou mon temps. John, I was just explaining that we know when we aren’t wanted.”

“Too right,” said John fervently, heading for the door of the Chief’s expansive and opulent office.

“Wait, please Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Bernard. “Chief Rousseau, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson…”

“Doctor,” said Sherlock.

“Apologies, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson are merely here to advise…”

“Consult.”

“Yes, yes, consult, to consult on the security measures put in place to protect the object…”

“Egg.”

Mr. Bernard glared at Sherlock, and Sherlock smiled falsely back at him.

“To protect the egg,” he went on, still glaring and obviously imploring Sherlock to stop interrupting. “They will not be affecting the work of your officers in any way.”

“You know, back in London, the police work with us,” Sherlock reminded them.

“This is not London,” snapped Rousseau, standing tall. He was already as tall if not slightly taller than Sherlock, and Sherlock wondered if they were all going to end up on tiptoe trying to out-tall each other. Not John of course. Where Rousseau was a tall bendy willow, John was a solid English oak. Not the tallest tree in the woods, but the strongest one that would outlast all the rest.

“Fine,” he said, glancing at John who merely shrugged. “We will stay out of your way. We are employed by Mr. Bernard to inspect the security at the Louvre, which we will do, and also to observe up until the 19th, which is the deadline for any potential thieves to try their luck and steal the replica without repercussions from you, Chief Rousseau. That is the case, correct?” He addressed the last to Bernard. It was what had been agreed, but best to have it stated aloud again. The last thing he wanted was for this puffed-up idiot Rousseau to use the opportunity to start arresting talented individuals who were a lot more useful if kept outside of jail.

“It is a ridiculous plan!” seethed Rousseau in retort. “We allow international jewel thieves to break into one of the bastions of French culture, and get away with it? It is a scandal!”

“But they won’t actually steal anything,” Sherlock sighed, as if talking to a toddler. “There might be some cosmetic damage to the building, but Mr. Bernard and his team have agreed that it will still be worth it to discover the flaws in their security systems.”

“Plus, it’s great publicity,” John said reasonably. “I know you think it makes you look bad, but seriously, have you seen how the hashtag ‘RobTheLouvre’ has blown up on Twitter?” He held up his phone, scrolling so that they could see the many tweets related to the scheme and the offered reward money. Sherlock grinned, honestly elated. He had thought that there was going to be some minimal interest from those in the criminal fraternity about the idea, but seeing it take off among the random mass of the public? Perfection.

Rousseau was not appeased.

“Twitter,” he said with a sneer. “This is how we measure success, now? No, Mr. Holmes. We cannot simply ignore you. Just you being here changes the nature of the game, you see?”

Sherlock’s ears pricked, and he saw John turn sharply towards the Chief.

“Game?” asked John, all taught lines and tension. Rousseau frowned.

“It is a figure of speech,” he said, confused at the sudden change in atmosphere. Sherlock realized he had indeed started to stand taller, and forced himself to relax. It was annoying when the transport took over in times of crisis.

“Changes it how?” he asked, watching Rousseau carefully. He also saw that John did not relax, but continued to focus intently on Rousseau.

“They know you are here,” Rousseau said darkly. “They have an audience now, they have someone to work against. People are going to want to say, ‘I stole _Winter_ while Sherlock Holmes was watching.” Sherlock took that in, then looked over at John, who had narrowed his eyes with suspicion. After a beat, John looked back at him, head slightly on one side. Sherlock could read, ‘He might have something there,’ from his eyes alone, and ‘Don’t trust him,’ from the set of his shoulders.

“Plus,” Rousseau went on, condescendingly, “It is all very similar to that American film.”

Sherlock sighed. Why did people keep bringing that up?

“Film?” Bernard said, then his face cleared as he recalled the conversation back in London. “Oh yes. ‘Web of lasers’ I believe you said?” he directed that at John, who flushed.

“Actually I said that,” said Sherlock. “And yes, there were some acrobatics involved in the film version that I am assuming will not be necessary in real life.”

“No indeed,” said Rousseau, face darkening again. “In real life, people are likely to get injured. Whoever tries to steal Winter will need to go through my men, The Louvre’s private security men, and knock out the security system - most likely with some kind of explosive. It is going to be dangerous and bloody and so help me, Mr. Holmes, if anyone does accomplish the task, then on your head be it!”

There was a weighty silence. Sherlock watched with interest at the vein throbbing prominently on Rousseau’s coiffed hairline. Taking it all very personally, he mused. Recent public failure. Bad press. Collapse of a marriage, insomnia, stomach ulcer. Gambling problem? Interesting.

“OK then,” he said brightly, and was gratified to see Rousseau’s mouth drop open. “Anything goes wrong - you can blame me. If there’s nothing else, we’ll be on our way. Nous m'en vais.” He walked briskly out of the office, touching John’s elbow to steer him that way as well. Once they were out of earshot, John asked,

“What did you say at the end there?”

“It’s a phrase about as close to ‘laters’ as you can get in French,” Sherlock said, and felt himself glow a little as John laughed.

************************************

They had arrived in Paris late at night on December 16th, only having time to check in to their rooms at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, and get to sleep ready for their meetings with Bernard and Rousseau on the morning of the 17th. Sherlock had privately insisted to Bernard that the only way they were coming was if they had at least one room with a view of the Eiffel Tower (he had practiced his prima donna persona for the occasion), and so Bernard had reluctantly booked them in at the opulent hotel. Sherlock had made sure that the room with the view had gone to John as he had never been to Paris before, and his crows of delight from the balcony at the sight of the ‘iron lady’ lit up at night had made it worth all the trouble. He was to be on call day and night in case there was an attempt made on the replica and not to stray too far from the Louvre, but that gave them plenty of time to explore and enjoy the city.

So, they were left with the afternoon of the 17th and all day on the 18th to explore, with the 19th to be taken up with inspecting the Louvre security measures if it turned out that no one had made an attempt by then. A day and a half, in a Paris dusted with snow, twinkling with Christmas lights, full of possibilities, ... with John.

Sherlock was panicking.

It had started as soon as John laughed. John was enjoying himself, which Sherlock kept reminding himself was the point of this entire exercise, but now they were here and it was all really happening, his skin felt too tight, his pulse way too fast, and his coat far too hot. They had left Place Louis Lépine and got off the river-clad island via the stunning Pont Neuf, and John was staring up at the Institut de France and getting his phone out, no doubt holding back from the amount of pictures he really wanted to take.

“Where else are you going to take me today?” John said, all smiles and cheeks brightened by the crisp winter air.

Sherlock blinked at him, brain stuttering to a halt. John laughed again. It was a warm sound, like the fireplace back home.

“Haven’t seen you do that for a while,” John said, patting him on the arm. “How about the Louvre, all this talk about it and I haven’t even seen it.” With something to latch onto, Sherlock’s brain managed to rev itself back online.

“Uh.. actually, it’s just across the river,” he said, pointing. “But we are going to see quite a lot of it by the end of the week. If we walk to the next bridge, the Pont du Carrousel, we can skip it and go straight to the Arc de Triomphe.”

“Sounds perfect,” John said happily, snapping a photo of Sherlock before he could protest. “Better get used to it,” he said sagely, “as I’m not going to stop anytime soon.”

As they walked, Sherlock found he was chattering away at a fast pace, unable to stop. John didn’t seem to mind though, frowning and gasping at all the right places as Sherlock told him about the people who had thrown themselves off the top of the Arc de Triomphe for various reasons, some of whom had caught their clothes on the cornices, leaving them dangling over horrified crowds before falling to their grisly ends below. He eventually wound down from his oration as they reached the arch itself and stood staring up at it.

“I wonder how many people here know about what you just told me,” John mused after a while, looking around at the crowds. Sherlock looked around as well. There were couples and families dotted around them, plus the usual tour groups. Everyone was laughing and smiling, cameras were clicking here and there. It was all very… wholesome. He saw more than one couple pose for a kiss in front of the monument, oblivious to its bloody history. For not the first time, he wondered if oblivion was better, which led to thoughts about if he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Probably none,” he said glumly. John leaned slightly and bumped him with his shoulder. When Sherlock looked over, his smile was private and warm.

“Too bad for them,” John said, eyes shining.

************************************************

For a spur-of-the-moment decision, John was enjoying his visit to Paris immensely. After a meandering walk during the afternoon by the banks of the Seine with Sherlock, marvelling at the sights such as the Place de la Concorde and the Champs-Élysées Gardens (all while laughing completely inappropriately at the gruesome and bizarre tales that Sherlock shared with him about each and every sight), he felt more relaxed than he had in months.

There had been one small blip in the day - Sherlock had realized that his pocket-magnifying-glass was missing. He had wanted to show John the marks chipped into one of the carvings they passed, a testament to the men who had made it so many years ago, then realized after checking all his pockets that it was gone. John commiserated, suggesting it may have been a pickpocket, and Sherlock had looked scandalised at the notion that someone could pick his pocket and get away with it. John had reminded him that at least they hadn’t gone for the other pocket and got his phone, and Sherlock had complained that he would much rather that they had.

Once back to the wifi at their hotel (what a view!) he saw that Rosie had sent him an email wondering if he had time to catch up. Sherlock demurred, saying that he would join in the next time, and John was guiltily grateful to have Rosie all to himself. Sherlock had said he was going to go for another walk, but John suspected he was going to retrace their steps and try and find his missing magnifying glass. After arranging to meet him the following morning for a visit to Notre Dame (which John had glimpsed the previous day through Rousseau’s office window) and the Christmas market there, he bid Sherlock a fond goodnight and settled down for a nice long Skype session with his daughter and a room-service binge.

“Hi there, old man!” Rosie said as soon as the video feed connected.

“Hello, sweetheart!” he said, grinning at her. She looked well - eyes bright, healthy, and she had done her makeup and had her favorite earrings on. “Going out?”

“Just getting back in, you muppet,” she laughed. “It’s 2am over here.” John felt a bit of trepidation at that, but at least she was back safe in her hotel. Everyone had counselled him that this was going to happen - she was going on a gap year to enjoy herself, not to sit in a box and do nothing, but he couldn’t help but worry.

“Remind me where you are again?”

“Seoul, Dad. Honestly, you have my itinerary!”

“Yes, sorry,” he said, abashed. “It’s just been a bit hectic over here.”

“I’ll say!” she grinned. He realized belatedly that the happy gleam in her eyes might be something to do with her being a bit drunk, and was torn between horror and amusement. “Dashing off to Paris with Sherlock, you rascals. Where is he?”

“He’s taken himself off, said he will catch you next time.”

“He’s gone out to get up to mischief, you mean,” she cackled, and John laughed too as she was probably right. “I really miss you both,” she said, now sporting a bit more of a soppy smile.

“We miss you too, princess,” John said, throat thick. “But it seems to me like you’re having too much fun to miss us all that much,” he added.

“Oh come on, I just had a few cocktails with Steph.”

“Yes, well, you know what I think of Steph,” he said, deadpan, and she laughed again.

“I know what Sherlock thinks of her too, and I’m choosing to go with that,” she said through giggles. “So tell me again what you two are doing over there? I’ve seen this thing about the Louvre all over Twitter…”

“Yeah we’re here… well, Sherlock’s here… to look over their security systems and basically just be on call if someone tries to steal this fake egg,” he explained.

“Not really his kind of thing, is it?” Rosie asked, leaning her chin on one hand.

“Well, no. No, it isn’t. He said they offered him a lot of money to do it, but I was surprised too, to be honest.”

“Hmm.” Rosie drummed the fingers of her other hand on the table she was leaning on. She had somehow ended up with Sherlock’s ‘thinking face’, when she lost all expression and her eyes lost focus. John loved seeing it on her. “Has there been anything else surprising, recently?” she asked.

“No? Oh… well, OK, yes there is one thing, but it’s probably nothing,” he said, picturing Diego sliding down their bannister with a scowl. Rosie snapped to attention.

“That wasn’t nothing,” she said.

“What?”

“That face!”

“What face?” he tried, but he knew what she was talking about. Whenever he thought of Diego he just couldn’t seem to control his irritation.

“Tell. Me,” Rosie demanded.

So he did. John told her all about the arrogant, handsome devil and how he was trying to whisk Sherlock off to Chile. He told her about Sherlock’s sudden interest in volunteering at the orphanage, about Rousseau’s ridiculous attitude that Sherlock would be to blame if there was any damage to the Louvre. He told her about Bernard’s disdain for him and basically anything he said or did. He told her so much, that by the end of his tirade she was holding her chin up on both hands and frowning down the camera at him.

“Dad…” she said hesitantly once he wound down, and with a bit of a slur to her words, “This is… well it’s not good. You don’t want some slick mysterious stranger coming along now and messing everything up, do you?”

“No… wait, messing what up?”

“Dad,” Rosie said, in a tone of ‘don’t be obtuse.’

“Really,” he said, feeling a bit bad at how obviously tired she was. “Messing what up?”

“You and Sherlock, obviously,” she said, the last word drawled just as Sherlock liked to pronounce it.

“Rosie…” he started, suddenly feeling very tired himself. They had broached this topic numerous times before while Rosie was growing up. First it was due to her obvious confusion that her little family looked so different to her classmates’. Later, Mrs. Hudson and others in their group had apparently gotten to her, as she went through a phase of setting little plots to try and get her two fathers together. John was mortified, but thankfully Sherlock took each of these incidents in his stride and would just keep reminding her that her fathers were ‘not like that.’ It had caused John some pain, having what he really wished for dangled in front of his face repeatedly, but he had long ago accepted that the life he had now was far preferable to one that others would term, ‘normal’.

He did not want to go over this with her, again, while she was drunk and thousands of miles away, and he was still glowing after a lovely afternoon out with a rarely-relaxed Sherlock.

“No, Dad,” Rosie said, and she folded her hands down in front of her, visibly summoning enough energy to have the conversation. “You can try to fob me off all you want, but this is different. What if Sherlock ends up going off with this Diego guy because you refuse to have one little conversation?”

“Sherlock is a grown man and can do what he wants,” John reminded her, staring down at the keyboard.

“Oh my god, Dad!” Rosie cried, and he looked back at the screen, ready to defend himself against her imploring. But she wasn’t imploring, not this time. She looked… well, murderous. “I seriously just want to come over there and shake you,” she said darkly.

“Rosie, listen…”

“No, you listen. Yes, Sherlock can do what he wants, but right now he doesn’t even know what the options are, does he? We all knew things were going to change once I left, I’m not surprised he might be interested in going off with some guy to be honest,” she held up a palm to the camera to stop John’s protest before he could voice it, “but it’s not fair of you to be sitting there pining away when he doesn’t even know that you are!”

“I am not pining!” he said, too loudly.

“OK, sure, that’s why you just spend the best part of an hour bitching about this Chilean guy that you barely know,” she said, full of snark.

“Sherlock Holmes is the most observant man in the world,” John said, jabbing a finger at the screen. “If I were… pining… he would have noticed, right? And he hasn’t done anything!”

Rosie folded her arms then, and… smirked?

John replayed what he had just said and then groaned into his hand.

“You are such an idiot,” she said with a sigh. “And so is he, but we both know he’s pretty blind when it comes to you. Oh, and ‘hasn’t done anything’? Are you, or are you not, on an all expenses paid romantic Christmas getaway to Paris, right now?”

“It’s not a ‘romantic getaway’ Rosie! We are working!”

“Working on some complete nonsense of a mission that Sherlock usually wouldn’t even bother to read about by email, yes I know, you told me. And he’s volunteering at the orphanage with you?”

“I… well… yes, but that’s…”

“That’s what? I love Sherlock to bits, but he’s hardly the type to shed a tear over a bunch of orphans who are being adequately taken care of. He’s doing it for you, dad.” John sat back in his chair, heart thumping.

“You… you think so?” Rosie yawned, then smiled sleepily at him, anger having burned out.

“What does he have planned for tomorrow, dad?” John blinked at her as the world seemed to tilt dangerously on its axis.

“... visit to Notre Dame and a Christmas market,” he mumbled. She smiled wider.

“Sounds lovely,” she said, yawning again. “So, I know you’re a bit slow…”

“Hey!”

“But, in case you missed it, what you just described is not work. It’s a day out with someone you care about. Your one and only job tomorrow is to show Sherlock that you are an option,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Are you listening, old man?”

“... yes,” John said quietly, wondering when exactly the roles had been reversed in this relationship.

“That means flirt, in case you didn’t get it,” she said sagely.

“Yes, I did grasp that much, Rosie, thank you.”

“Even better - a grand gesture.”

“Grand gesture?”

Rosie looked heavenward as if the trials of talking John through this were truly painful.

“You know, the _grand gesture!_ Something big, just for him, to get his attention. Something you think he will like. I swear you two are as clueless as each other…”

“I am not clueless!” he protested. He was in fact known as quite the charmer… or he had been, in his youth. Grand gesture… hmmm.

“So you’ll do it? Or better yet, you’ll _talk_ to him?”

“I’ll… consider it.”

Rosie huffed audibly.

“Alright, fine, you consider it, then when Sherlock has gone off to fight crime in Chile with a ballet-dancer, you can get yourself ten cats and take up knitting, alright?”

“Rosie…”

“I know, dad,” she sighed. “I just… I love you both very much, and I want you to be happy. Everyone does, you know?”

John felt a lump in his throat once again.

“I do know, princess,” he said, then smiled at her. “I’ll let you go now, love. It must be close to four in the morning now.”

“Mmmm, yep,” she agreed. “Me and Steph are doing a city tour tomorrow if we’re not too hungover,” she mumbled.

“Somehow I think I can guess the outcome of that,” John said fondly. “You take care of yourself, OK? I love you.”

“Will do,” she said, saluting. It was something Sherlock had taught her to do, just to John, when she was a toddler, and she had never stopped. “Love you, too. Say hi to his highness - then snog him silly!” She grinned once more into the camera, then signed off.

*********************************************************

John was being… puzzling.

After a light breakfast at the hotel, they had spent an instructive morning on a tour of Notre Dame. Sherlock had attempted to keep his sotto-voce commentary to a minimum, but found after he set John to giggling about the fabled ‘Dame of Notre Dame’, he just couldn’t help himself. It was just such an intriguing sound.

But… John wasn’t just giggling when he was supposed to be solemn - he always did that. He also seemed to be… well, _there_. A hand on Sherlock’s elbow, or the small of his back to steer him after the guide. Beckoning him closer in order to whisper in his ear. Straightening his scarf, brushing something off his shoulder… it seemed that John’s regular orbit around Sherlock had shrunk by at least 20%.

Sherlock wasn’t sure what had precipitated such a change, but he was not about to question it.

Once they were out in the Christmas market at the foot of the cathedral, John became even more puzzling. He insisted on taking a few selfies of the two of them - something he had never, ever done. He bought sweet treats from the vendors in single servings, insisting that they share them together rather than have one each. Rather unfortunately, he also insisted on visiting the mulled wine kiosk several times, so that by around three in the afternoon he was what Molly Hooper might term, ‘squiffy’. That was alright though. A squiffy John Watson was even more affectionate than he had been in the morning, plus he laughed even louder and longer.

So, John was being puzzling… but there was nothing that Sherlock loved more than a good puzzle.

“What do you want to do next?” John asked happily, prodding Sherlock in the ribs.

“Well… I had thought that we could go ice skating at the Eiffel Tower rink, but I’m not sure you’d be able to stand up.” John’s face screwed up in offense.

“What’re you saying? I can skate! I’ll skate rings around you!”

“John, you can barely walk in a straight line,” Sherlock said, gesturing in front of himself.

“Sure I can,” argued John. “Watch this.”

Then with no preamble at all, he grabbed Sherlock around the waist, slumped slightly towards him, and set off walking. Sherlock was forced to walk as well, with a huff of surprise.

“See?” John said smugly. “Straight.” They narrowly avoided colliding with a Christmas tree.

“I don’t think that means what you think it means, John,” Sherlock laughed. John stopped and turned to look at him, still joined at the hip. He was smiling rather goofily.

“You know… I might be a bit tipsy,” he murmured, eyes glazed. Sherlock smiled back at him, but felt a little melancholy. It would be nice if John were like this without the influence of several mugs of mulled wine.

“Brilliant deduction,” he said, and John snorted. He then stepped away, hands on Sherlock’s upper arms to steady himself. He glanced around and up at the sky, then paused.

“Here’s another deduction,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s… that’s mistletoe.”

Sherlock slowly tilted his head to look up. John was right - mistletoe was suspended at regular intervals along the path, hung from the strings of lights crisscrossing to and fro. Breathing suddenly seemed a bit difficult.

“Well…” His brain had helpfully shut down at the speculative look on John’s face.

“Well…” John echoed, and then he raised an eyebrow. “You know what people are supposed to do under the mistletoe.”

“John…”

But he was too slow. John was already standing up on unsteady tiptoe, and before he could really react, Sherlock felt John’s lips make contact with his cheek. It was a different experience than when it happened with Diego. In that instance he had felt cold and heavy all over. Now? Now he felt… warm, and light. Like he could float away.

John withdrew sharply, but it seemed more because he momentarily lost his balance than anything else. Sherlock caught him by both elbows, and John grinned at him.

“Alright?” he asked, and then Sherlock could see that even through the confidence-boosting haze of alcohol, there was still some anxiety there. Preposterous - John Watson had nothing to fear from Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Well, alright then!” said John happily, turning again and slinging an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “I believe, someone said ice skating?”

“We can try,” Sherlock said dubiously. He saw John grin, then stare off into the crowd, face suddenly changing and becoming alert.

“Hang on a second,” he said, releasing Sherlock and taking a few steps away. He was staring hard between two of the festive huts.

“What is it?” asked Sherlock, trying to see what John was seeing. There was nothing there - just a gap between a pretzel vendor and a hut with volunteers selling raffle tickets. He raked his gaze over them but could deduce nothing out of the ordinary. John was still staring and frowning.

“I thought I saw… nevermind.” John turned back to him, but the drunken glaze was gone from his smile. Whatever, whoever he had seen had certainly had a sobering effect.

“John?” Sherlock asked, cautious. John smiled, attempting reassurance.

“It’s fine,” he said, then started walking again, and after a few steps looped his arm through Sherlock’s. Sherlock looked down at their linked arms and back to John, feeling off-balance.

“Let’s go ice skating,” John said, but Sherlock wasn’t feeling quite as excited about the prospect as before.

******************************

This… might have been a mistake.

John was certain that he was bruised all over. Sherlock of course was right at home on the ice, gliding around like he had been born to it, while John fell and tumbled like a new-born giraffe. A new-born giraffe on _ice_. Everything hurt, he was freezing cold, and the glow of the mulled-wine had worn off several falls ago. Sherlock had asked him a few times if he wanted to stop, but the Watson stubbornness had awoken and now he was determined to make it around the rink at least one time without landing on his bum.

“Am I allowed to help?” Sherlock asked, voice almost as pained as John’s behind.

“Help how?” John grumbled, arms flung out as he wobbled in place once again. He was grumpy, and not only because of the amount of times he’d landed with a thump on the unforgiving surface. Earlier, at the Christmas market, he had been sure he had seen Diego Silvestre. He had been leaning casually against a wooden wall between two of the huts, grinning at him. But then a family had walked in between them, cutting off John’s view, and when they had passed by Diego was gone. He hadn’t wanted to spoil the mood with Sherlock, but he was sure that he had seen him.

John was trying to shake it off and be in the present moment. The setting was lovely - ice rink set up right underneath the tower, so if you looked up you could see all the way through the structure towards the top. John knew that very well, because that was the view you got when you fell flat on your back.

“Like this,” Sherlock said, and in an effortless twist of his feet, he was behind John, his own arms outstretched, and holding John’s hands.

John forgot how to breathe, until he wobbled again and it all came back to him. Sherlock chuckled softly in his ear and suddenly John couldn’t have cared less if he fell a hundred more times.

“Just follow me,” Sherlock said softly. He moved his left foot, so John did the same. There was a minor wobble, but Sherlock had him in a firm grip. “You just have to go with it, John,” he said, moving his right foot, and John automatically did the same. “Better,” he said approvingly, moving again, and John followed, breathless. Slowly, slowly, they started moving forwards. “I’m going to move in front now,” Sherlock warned, and let go of him for a terrifying second. Then he was in front of John, facing backwards, still holding his outstretched hands. “Keep following,” he said encouragingly, moving his skates backwards when he wanted John to move forwards. “You can lean on me as well,” he said, flashing him a grin. John couldn’t help it - he grinned back, and leaned forward, staring at their feet moving on the ice. After a minute of two of concentration…

“John, look up.”

John lifted his head in confusion, and gasped. The sky had darkened, and the tower lights had come on, shining all around them and reflecting off the rink. They were moving across the ice quite quickly now, and John realized he didn’t have to look at his feet at all. Sherlock was pulling him along, and he was following, and it was exhilarating, and a bit dangerous, and wonderful.

“Remember this?” Sherlock suddenly said, and released John’s hands so he could hold him by both shoulders. He did something with his feet, so that they started to spin. “I need you to maximise your visual memory,” Sherlock said very seriously, in an exact copy of when he had done this to John on their second ever case together. The Blind Banker, when John had been very close to deciding that Sherlock Holmes actually was barking mad. Twenty-five years later, and he knew he was.

“I need you to picture what you saw,” said John, continuing the remembered words and chuckling. “The look on your face when I got out my phone with the photo, it was like you’d never seen anyone use their brain before.”

“Well, that is not entirely inaccurate,” said Sherlock, keeping them in the slow spin. John remembered the advice from Rosie. ‘Show Sherlock that you are an option.’ He swallowed, suddenly nervous, but still determined. _Grand gesture_ , he said to himself. Sherlock caught the change in mood of course, and looked at him more closely.

“Speaking of accurate…” John ventured, amazed at his own daring, “it wasn’t exactly like this, the first time.” Sherlock frowned in confusion.

“Are you alright? What wasn’t exactly like this?”

“You. You, spinning me around, that time, years ago. It wasn’t exactly like this.” John’s heart rate picked up, he could feel it thumping as he got a spike of adrenalin.

“How wasn’t it… oh,” Sherlock blinked at him, and their spin slowed to a stop, barrier within arm’s reach. John had been so taken aback all those years ago when Sherlock had grabbed his face with both hands. It had been weird, and intense, and… unforgettable. For a moment, he had been the most important thing in the world to that madman, and the strength of that regard and curiosity had threatened to knock his knees out. He wondered if he were any stronger now.

One look at Sherlock’s face, shining with affection and the winter lights of the Eiffel Tower, and he knew he wasn’t. Oh well. There was more to life than being strong.

Sherlock still had his hands on John’s shoulders, and seemed to be at a bit of a loss. John dug down for some of the bravado he had felt when under the influence of the mulled wine, looked down at first one gloved hand then the other, then back to Sherlock’s face with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but he was still smiling. He squeezed John’s arms once, then let go, but slid slightly closer. His eyes never left John’s and he tilted his head, as if to ask, ‘Are you sure?’ He looked a painful cross-between terrified and hopeful.

John nodded.

Sherlock raised both hands, gaze flicking down to John’s mouth…

_You are somebody that I don't know, but you're taking shots at me like it's Patrón…_

Sherlock’s phone started ringing, loudly. They both froze in place. Sherlock looked extremely confused, with his hands hovering somewhere around John’s ears.

_...And I'm just like "Damn, it's 7:00 a.m."..._

“Did you have to choose that song?” John asked evenly. He slid himself backwards, out of Sherlock’s reach. Sherlock slowly put his arms down.

“No?” he said, confused at the apparent non-sequitur.

_...Say it in the street, that's a knock-out, but you say it in a Tweet, that's a cop-out…_

They stared at each other a little longer until John couldn’t take it, then he reached for Sherlock’s pocket - forgetting they were still on ice. There was a confused tumble, then John was at ground level and basically sitting on top of the world’s only consulting detective. Somehow he had managed to get the phone, and as he pushed himself apologetically off of Sherlock (who couldn’t have looked more shocked had John smacked him in the face with a frozen mackerel), he answered it.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Holmes?”

“No, this is Doctor Watson.”

There was a sigh of aggravation down the phone and if John hadn’t already known it was the Louvre Director, Mr. Bernard, he did now.

“Well, Doctor, if you would be so good as to pass on a message?” John looked up at Sherlock who had managed to stagger upwards and back onto his skates, and was peering down at him, frowning.

“Sure.”

“Please let him know that someone tried to steal _Winter_ , and he needs to be here first thing tomorrow morning, eight AM.”

*********************************************************

“He came through the ventilation shaft, here,” Bernard said, flinging an arm out in the direction of the metal grate that was hanging askew from the wall. He was keeping up a brisk face, clipped, angry voice only emphasized by the sound of his expensive shoes as he strode through the wide gallery halls. Sherlock followed along behind, hands clasped behind his back, vaguely interested. There were at least seven ways in and out of this place that he had noted so far, but even with his limited social skills he could tell that Henri Bernard really just needed to let his mood burn off through the process of a good rant.

“He sprayed the camera to block the feed here, he clipped the alarm wire here, and there was an altercation with one of my guards, here.” He was almost stomping at this point.

“An altercation?” asked John with some concern. “Is the guard alright?”

Sherlock realized, a moment too late, that both he and Bernard had turned to John with slightly incredulous expressions. John looked between them and sighed in aggravation.

“Yes, yes,” said Bernard, this time waving his hand as if swatting an inconsequential fly. “He is fine - he will be on leave for two weeks, but fine. In fact after they traded a few blows, the thief turned and ran. My man is to be commended.”

“So this is as far as he got?” Sherlock queried. They were standing two feet from the final door separating them from the replica egg, which was controlled by a passcode-protected door.

“I think it is quite far enough!” sneered Bernard.

“And you think they gave up because of the fight with the guard?” he pressed, ignoring the rather violent emotions rolling off the man. John had gone to peer at the door control panel, so Sherlock drifted over there as well to peer over his shoulder. John tensed slightly, then flashed him a bit of a nervous grin over his shoulder. Sherlock huffed irritably through his nose, moving away.

The previous day had been extremely confusing. The drunken kiss on the cheek under the mistletoe, plus the flirty (were they flirty?) comments at the ice rink all certainly seemed to point in a pleasing direction. But then it was as if the phone call from Bernard had doused John in ice-water. Once they had made it safely off the actual ice, he had closed off. It seemed as though none of this, the trip, the plans, the case - none of it had been enough - none of it was enough. As John had withdrawn, so had he. By the time they were back at the hotel it was like the day had never happened, and they had bid each other goodnight as if they were total strangers. Perhaps John was wondering what he was doing here, wasting his time, when he could be back in London with Lex Harrison...

A little voice inside was insisting that the mistletoe kiss was a piece of reliable data, but then… John had only done that because he was drunk. Plus, Diego had kissed him on the cheek six times in their acquaintance, and that was without a holiday tradition to fuel him. None of those had meant anything, so…

“Mr. Holmes!”

Sherlock supposed that the dull man must have been trying to get his attention for a while.

“Someone on the inside loosened the vent cover to let him in. They also cut the power to the alarm surrounding it, probably yesterday. The fight with the guard was most likely staged - he wouldn’t have quit this close to the end goal unless there was a strong reason to,” he said, wandering further away to look at a positively disturbing piece of renaissance art. Why were they so obsessed with dying dogs in these paintings?

“Staged?” asked John, speaking up over Bernard’s spluttering.

“Yes - he would have known to expect a guard at this point,” Sherlock mused, turning his back on the painting and moving to examine a plinth with a glass case on the top. There was a statue inside, but also something else.... “So why run away after ‘an altercation’?” Sherlock said, letting part of his brain continue on the conversation while the rest switched gears while cataloging what he was seeing in the display case. “He could have gassed him, injected him with something, or just plain-old knocked him out.”

“My guards are above reproach!” shouted Bernard, and Sherlock saw John shake his head, frowning.

“Most people, in our experience, can be bought off quite easily, Mr. Bernard,” he said. The Director said nothing, but his nostrils were flaring like an enraged elephant.

“Who knew the code?” Sherlock asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Only me, and the guard,” said Bernard, and his face changed then as he appeared to start thinking things over.

“And the new guard? Know him well, do you?” asked John, sounding a bit amused. Bernard paled.

“You don’t think..”

“Your original man was either bought off and was in on it, or he wasn’t and needed to be replaced, to make way for the real attempt that will happen sometime today,” Sherlock said, and he couldn’t help but bounce on his feet a little as he moved away from the display case and turned to look at them. Finally, _finally_ , this was starting to get interesting.

But was it going to be interesting enough?

“If he wasn’t in on it, then how did the thief open the vent?” asked John.

“There are specialized tools for such things,” Sherlock admitted. “That or there is someone else working the inside.”

“Mr. Holmes, what are you saying?” said Bernard. His eyes were wide now as he realized the Louvre was in fact nowhere near as secure as he previously thought. Sherlock, of course, had known that without ever having stepped foot in the place.

Nowhere was ever as safe as people thought it was.

“Human error, Mr. Bernard,” said Sherlock, purposefully not looking at John. He didn’t need the confusion, for the moment. You can design all the elaborate systems in the world, but it is always the human component that is vulnerable. With the right motivation, a man can find a route to con his way towards just about any goal.”

“Well then… what can we do?” asked Bernard, his deep voice approaching something of a wail. “I need to entrust the code to someone, in case of emergency. If not the guard of the door, then who?”

“Me,” said Sherlock, grimly. “Your Chief of police, Rousseau, is admittedly a egotistical narcissist, but he does seem to be right about one thing - my presence here has indeed changed the game. It seems I have become more involved in all of this than you originally planned.”

“What? Why?” asked Bernard. Sherlock took a few steps back, until he was level with the display case.

“That’s why,” he said, pointing at it, and looking over at John. John frowned and came to join him, then let out a little gasp.

“That’s your magnifying glass,” he said, tone disturbed. And it was indeed - the rectangular device that Sherlock had used for years was sitting, quite innocuously, inside the locked case at the foot of the statuette.

*********************************************************

Chief of Police Pierre Rousseau seemed to be in quite the temper, and at this point John was gearing up to join him. They were in a side office off the public parts of the museum, going over the new plan with the Chief. Bernard had already melted away, no doubt to avoid Rousseau’s ire.

“The previous guard ended up on a week’s leave due to getting _beaten up_ , Sherlock!” John shouted.

“I’m not going to be replacing him, John,” Sherlock said, matching his anger with an annoying amount of calm. “I’m just going to be walking the perimeter.”

“With the bloody code to the last bloody door that this maniac has to bloody break though to get to the bloody egg!” John shouted.

“Replica egg.”

John sucked in a great breath so he could answer that with the attitude it deserved, but Rousseau beat him to it.

“A ridiculous plan, absolutely ridiculous!” he bellowed. John noted absently that this seemed to be his favorite word. “You have no training in security, you have no credentials from even a British agency, and you have no business being here!”

“Aside from the fact that I have been hired by the Louvre,” Sherlock said mildly.

“A mistake, a colossal mistake!” Rousseau hissed.

“Now, steady on…” John said, hackles rising. It was one thing for John to have a go at Sherlock, god knew he’d earned it, but quite another for this tall pompous windbag to set in on him. “Sherlock has a point, we were asked to come here.”

“Excellent, then it’s agreed!” said Sherlock, clapping his hands together.

“Wait, what?” said John, wrong-footed. He was still extremely angry but just then didn’t really know where to direct it.

“Plus John will be with me, and he is a decorated war hero,” Sherlock said, something rather smug in his expression.

“Wait, I never said that I would…”

“Is this true, Doctor Watson?” Rousseau said, suddenly sounding a lot more respectful.

“Well…”

“Shot in the shoulder while saving lives on the Afghanistan front lines,” said Sherlock proudly, as if he had somehow orchestrated it. John rubbed at his right shoulder as it gave a phantom twinge, glaring at Sherlock. “Plus,” he went on, “While you are correct in that I have no formal training, I am a ninth degree red-belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and anyone who thinks they can ‘beat’ the passcode out of me is going to have a rather rude awakening.”

John didn’t really know what to say to that, as he knew it was true. He had seen Sherlock take out a variety of criminals with a few side-steps and an almost-afterthought punch that left them gasping for air and in need of bed-rest for a week.

It still didn’t mean he was happy that Sherlock was essentially painting a target on his own head - again.

The previous day had been… well, a bit of a mess. He knew the mulled wine at the Christmas market was a mistake even as he was buying it, but he had been just so damned nervous. It didn’t help that he was sure that Diego was lurking around, probably getting ready to steal the replica egg. He had heard Rosie’s advice circling round and around his head, but his conflicting thoughts about how to proceed had ended up all tangled in his mind - so much so that it had been overwhelming, and he had found himself veering wildly from outright flirtation to skittish, jumpy, plausible deniability. When the real world had intruded on their little ice-skating bubble, he had retreated as fast as his stammering, British, emotionally-stunted cover had allowed. He had barely got any sleep, remembering the stiff and cold ‘goodnights’ they had exchanged, a flicker of bemused hurt buried deep under Sherlock’s preferred mask of indifference. John had promised himself he would do better today… but now this.

Sherlock, of course, picked up on his confused hesitation and moved straight in to exploit it.

“Remember the whole point of this exercise is to find the weak points in the security system so that the real Winter egg doesn’t get stolen. This thief, who seems to want me as his audience, might not even show up if I’m not there. They might decide to wait one more day and go for the real Winter instead.” Rousseau bristled in the background.

“You’re acting like you don’t know exactly who it is,” John hissed. “And have you thought for a moment that he might not only want to show off? Maybe he wants you implicated as well?”

Sherlock pulled back, blinking rapidly. He looked… well, he honestly looked like he didn’t know what John was talking about.

“What is this?” Rousseau demanded. “You can tell me who broke in last night?”

“No,” said Sherlock, just as John said,

“Yes!”

Sherlock frowned at him.

“It wasn’t Diego,” he said, with certainty.

“How do you know? Because he said so?” said John, derisive. “Honor among thieves?”

Sherlock drew even further back, and that flicker of confused upset flashed across his face again.

“Who is Diego?” shouted Rousseau. John opened his mouth to explain, but then realized that would be crossing a line with Sherlock there might be no way back from. Sherlock had gone very still.

“Just a… petty thief, that we know,” John muttered, turning away and trying to get his anger under control. “Sherlock’s right, it… it couldn’t have been him. Too big a job.” He gripped his hands into fists and released them a few times. Once he felt a little calmer, he turned back. Both Rousseau and Sherlock were watching him warily.

“Fine. I’ll do the patrol with Sherlock. But until then, I’m going… I’m going sightseeing,” he said. Part of him was pleased to see Sherlock’s mouth drop open before he hurriedly controlled his features, while another part was screaming at him to stop being such an idiot. “You don’t really need me here. You can all… get set up, or whatever, and I’ll come back later.”

“John…” Sherlock said, but John didn’t want to hear it.

“It’s fine,” he said with finality, and Sherlock fell silent. “What time do you want me back here?” Sherlock had a pinched expression and didn’t answer.

“The museum closes at 6pm and we expect whoever it is will make a move after that,” offered Rousseau, now looking between them curiously.

“OK,” said John, gripping his hand and releasing it again. “I’ll see you back here at 6pm then.” Sherlock stared at him for a beat, then lifted his head into the familiar haughty expression John knew was one of his fallback poses when he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Fine,” he said, voice flat. “Enjoy your sightseeing.” He turned away, as if fascinated by the museum blueprints that had been tacked onto the wall.

“Thanks,” said John, and a minute later found himself on the other side of the office wall. There was a ringing in his ears, and his insides were twisted into knots. He took a deep breath, and walked away from the door, out into the museum proper and then away into the Paris streets.

**************************************

He had ended up back at the Arc de Triomphe, legs working on auto-pilot. His thoughts were whirling and couldn’t settle on a proper course of action.

Was Sherlock right, and this whole thing was nothing to do with Diego Silvestre? It just didn’t seem possible. From what John had seen of the man, he was cunning, clever and manipulative. Sherlock had told him he wouldn’t go to Chile with him, so what if Diego had decided to force the issue? He could implicate Sherlock in helping with the theft, which although would be a theft of a replica, would still do great harm to Sherlock’s reputation. It would look like he had set the whole thing up in order to con money out of the Louvre - and people would happily believe it, too. Just like they had turned on the detective so many times in the past, they would do it again, and John couldn’t bear to watch.

Was it possible that Diego could plot all of that out and have Sherlock really be none the wiser? Did Sherlock actually want to see him pull the heist off? Would he be impressed by it? Did he even realize he was being manipulated? Did he even care?

John glared up at the Arc in agitation.

They had been getting along so well, hadn’t they? Well enough that John thought that Sherlock wanted… well. It had seemed so, at least yesterday afternoon. But, he thought morosely, it was hardly ever going to be enough, was it? Sherlock loved mystery, puzzles, the thrill of the chase. As John got older, he also got slower, more cautious. Life raising Rosie had changed his perspective dramatically, and he had thought… hoped… it was the same for Sherlock. Had he got it all wrong? Was Sherlock just waiting for an opportunity to up sticks and try for a more exciting life somewhere else? With someone else?

Properly feeling the cold for the first time since they had arrived in Paris, he wended his way back to their hotel. The sky was grey, and the twinkling lights on the buildings did nothing to brighten it. Was this trip… was this trip, a kind of… goodbye? One last hurrah before Sherlock told him that it was all over?

Well… bugger that!

John started walking with a bit more purpose.

If tonight was all meant to be … well, a ‘grand gesture’, some sort of mad courting event and enticement to Sherlock, well then not on his watch. John was going to be there making sure that Diego failed, and if possible fell flat in his face while doing so. If he could also end up somehow turning him over to Rousseau for his previous crimes, well then that would be the icing on the cake.

John Watson was a soldier, and he was not going to give up without a fight.

***************************************************

He arrived back at the Louvre at 5:45pm, and after some argument with the security and various calls on walkie-talkies, he was allowed in. He had changed into his black jeans, shirt and jacket in order to decrease his visibility during the evening, and already his pulse was thrumming a little faster with the thought of hunting down Diego and foiling whatever clever plans he was putting into place. He was led through to Bernard’s office by an agitated security guard, and could hear raised voices from inside.

“Please explain why there is a need for live ammunition?” Sherlock was saying, more like sneering, as John entered the office. He flicked him a brief glance, but stayed focused on Rousseau. “We _invited_ thieves here, for god’s sake!”

“International, wanted jewel thieves!” said Rousseau. “Violent, narcissistic people, who would happily see you dead than lose out on their prize!”

“Do you have any evidence of that?” Sherlock asked. John noted that they had both changed as well - under the ubiquitous Belstaff, Sherlock appeared to be wearing black slacks and a black turtleneck, while Rousseau was in black uniform.

“One of Bernard’s men was beaten, just yesterday! This will not be happening to a member of the Paris police force,” Rousseau said darkly.

“So you’re going to kill whoever tries to steal the replica instead? That will look wonderful for public relations, I’m sure.”

“My men will be armed,” stated Rousseau coldly. “And that is final. If you do not agree, feel free to leave.” Sherlock glared at him a moment longer, then headed for the door.

“It’s almost time for our patrol,” he said as he reached John, not looking at him. “I have the route memorized - unless there’s something else you’d rather be doing?” John winced.

“No, I’ll come along,” he said quietly. Sherlock huffed as if it didn’t matter to him either way.

“Rousseau,” he said as a farewell, tone glacial.

“Holmes,” the Chief responded in kind.

John almost had to jog to keep up with Sherlock then, as he strode quickly away from the room.

“Imbecile,” Sherlock muttered. He looked ready to chew glass.

“He does seem to be missing the point,” John ventured. Sherlock turned sharply to the left, and John widened his stride to compensate.

“That seems to be going around,” Sherlock said, still not looking at him. John sighed.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright? I just needed some time to think.”

“Think about what?” Sherlock said, coming to a sudden halt in a darkened hallway. He rounded on John, and it was only his reflexes that stopped John from stepping away. “Think about how you would rather be anywhere but here?”

“What? No!” said John, shocked. Sherlock sneered, then turned and kept on walking.

“Well you could have fooled me, John. I thought you were enjoying yourself, then as soon as things start to get really interesting, you couldn’t get away fast enough.”

“That’s not why I left,” said John, a little out of breath as Sherlock seemed to move up yet another walking gear, coat swishing around him. “Look, slow down, will you?” Sherlock didn’t say anything, but his pace did slow a tad. “I just… I just think you aren’t seeing this thing clearly,” he said.

“ _Me?_ ” exclaimed Sherlock. “ _I’m_ the one not seeing things clearly? Are you listening to yourself?”

“I think there’s more going on here than meets the eye,” John pressed on. “And you might not be seeing it… objectively.”

Sherlock stopped again, looking baffled.

“John… I thought you would enjoy this. Us, being here. A case, a mystery. I thought it would be fun.”

“It _is_ fun,” John said, caught off guard.

“Then why do you keep running away?” he asked, and there was something vulnerable in his voice.

“I don’t keep running away, I just left once,” John said, but he had a sinking feeling that wasn’t quite what Sherlock had meant. Sherlock just gave him an intense, disappointed look, and went back to walking.

“Sherlock, I…”

“We have to stay quiet now, John,” Sherlock said, tone lowered and blank. “And we have to move at a certain speed, we are supposed to be at specific points on the route at specific times.”

John swallowed, not even sure what he had been going to say. It was going to be a long evening.

******************************************************

After a while, John began to see what they were doing. They were patrolling the inside of the building along two different routes, then the outside along two intersecting routes. They passed other patrols and standing guards, and occasionally Sherlock let them through a gate or door with a swipe of a card. As far as John knew, he was still the only one aside from Henri Bernard who had the code for the final door, but their route was not taking them anywhere near it. Whenever they were outside, he could also see armed police officers at street level. The atmosphere was tense, everyone waiting for something to happen, but unsure of what it was going to be.

Sherlock hadn’t spoken to him for two hours. His keen analytical gaze swept over everyone they came across, and John knew he was also looking out for differences in their surroundings from one round to the next as well. John might as well have been a dog padding loyally by his side, for the amount of attention Sherlock paid him. He wondered if it would have been any different had he not left that afternoon - and he worried that it would not have been.

For his part, John was also checking everyone they came across, as he was positive that one would eventually be replaced by the moustache-twirling menace, Diego. He was sure he was there already, it was like he could smell him, the feeling was so strong.

They turned a corner that led them back out into the cold evening air, when,

“Rousseau?” John whispered, surprised. The Chief of Police was walking down a side corridor and hadn’t heard them - but he was throwing off the patrol pattern. The gun on his hip gleamed in the light coming through the windows as he passed in front of them. Sherlock peered after him, eyebrow raised, but did not move. “He’s not supposed to be there,” John whispered, and Sherlock hummed in assent, but he then continued to walk towards the door. “Wait,” said John, agitated. “Shouldn’t we follow him?”

“Why?” asked Sherlock, swiping his card. “He’s the Chief of Police, he can go where he likes.”

“It seems off…” John said, and it did. There was no reason for Rousseau to be heading back into the museum at 11pm while the security system and patrols were operating.

“John, we need to keep moving, there’s a schedule. If we stop then there will be a gap in the perimeter,” Sherlock said, stepping outside.

“But what if Rousseau is up to something?” John said. It also seemed odd to him that Sherlock was not as interested in this unexpected event as he was.

“He doesn’t have the code,” Sherlock reminded him, glancing at his watch impatiently. “Come on, John, we have to go now.”

“You keep going,” John said, squinting back into the gloom, trying to work out where Rousseau had gone.

“ _What?_ ”

“Look, I know the route. I’ll catch you up, I just want to check this out.” Every instinct was telling John to go and follow Rousseau, and to do it now.

“What happened to not letting me walk around alone?” Sherlock hissed. He seemed very on-edge, and his eyes were pleading with John to stop this nonsense. “You’re supposed to come _with me_.” He looked at his watch again, stressed.

“I’ll catch up, I promise,” John said, turning away.

“John…”

But John was hurrying away. He heard Sherlock curse softly behind him, then the door closed. He knew he had said he would stay with Sherlock, but Rousseau was acting out of character, and he was _armed_. He also knew that while he did not trust Diego for one second, he wasn’t here to hurt Sherlock, but to impress him. Rousseau was another matter entirely.

He ran on light feet back the way they had come, sticking to the sides of the halls and the shadows as much as possible. He was in the outer ring of galleries. The Winter replica was in one of the inner rooms, with only one door in or out. At various points he stopped, hearing footsteps, but it would be another patrol passing by. He managed to keep out of sight as he knew the direction each group would take - the pattern complex but not impossible to figure out. He started getting frustrated, because as he got closer and closer to the inner galleries, he still saw no sign of Rousseau.

After about forty minutes of this, he got to a point that if he went any further, it was he who was going to be stopped due to acting suspiciously, and not Rousseau. There didn’t seem to be any disturbances, no alarms had been sounded, and there had been no breaks in the passing of the patrol teams. Whatever Rousseau was doing, it seemed as though John wasn’t going to be able to stop him.

Annoyed, he started hurrying back towards the outer door where he had left Sherlock, already mentally mapping where he would have gone next so that John could catch up with him. He swiped his own key card and dashed outside, but then across the courtyard he saw another out-of-place figure. Someone was running across the wide open space, and as John looked the way they had come he saw that there was an open window behind them.

Acting on instinct, John took off running after them. They were extremely fast on their feet, tall and lithe, wearing all-black along with a ski-mask so he couldn’t even see the color of their hair in the starlight. They also had a black duffel strapped across their back.

 _Diego_ , John snarled in his head, putting on an extra burst of speed. As they ran, he considered calling out to the other patrols that he knew would immediately come to his aid - but something held him back. He wanted to be the one to catch the manipulative bastard. He wanted to be able to show Sherlock that the man had been lying to him, had been trying to set him up. He also wanted the chance to finally punch the little toad in the face, but that was just an added bonus.

The dark figure darted to the right and John plowed on after it, panting with exertion, but as he rounded the corner there was no-one there, as if they had just vanished. Realizing what that meant a fraction of a second too late, he spun around just as the hidden figure was aiming a roundhouse kick to take out John’s legs from behind. He was still caught a blow on one shin and went down hard onto one knee. The figure jumped up in order to keep running, but John used his bent knee to propel himself forward and take off in pursuit.

He could see immediately that he wasn’t going to be fast enough, so as they went over a curb he used it to push forward in an extra burst of speed and rugby-tackle the thief to the ground. There was a satisfying ‘oomph’ of air from his assailant as they pitched forward and landed face-down on the floor, so John gave them an extra solid punch to the ribcage as well that left them gasping. However, as John moved to straddle and restrain the mystery person, they twisted like an eel and elbowed him hard in the chest. He reared back, gasping, and they turned onto their back, brought their linked hands over their head and smacked them hard into his right shoulder. The old war wound flared with pain and John was too stunned to react as the figure twisted out from underneath him, scrambling to their feet again. John reared back with his hands in front of his face for protection, expecting a kick or punch, but apparently he was not worth the effort as the person took off running for a third time.

Cursing his leg and bullet-wound, he decided this was not the hill he was going to die on.

“Stop, thief!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “He’s there, East courtyard!” If he wasn’t going to be able to catch the bastard himself, he would at least help the ones who would. He would have called for Sherlock, but he would be in one of the inner galleries by now, unaware of what was going on outside. Immediately upon hearing his shout, people appeared along the edge of the roof and out from other doors, and more shouting filled the night. The running thief disappeared into the shadows thrown by the elaborate carvings on the facade on the opposite side of the courtyard, and John cursed a few more times as he limped in that direction. After a few steps, the muscles loosened enough for him to move into a light jog, and he strained his ears listening to the shouted conversations going on around him. Much of it was in French, which didn’t help, and the echoes bouncing off all the walls made it impossible to ascertain what was going on. When he got to the other side and into a large empty gallery that had not been part of his patrol route, there were a few guards and policemen having hushed conversations, but generally just milling around.

“Well, where is he?” he asked loudly, heart still pounding and shoulder still throbbing from the fight. There was some mumbling in French.

“John!”

Sherlock was running towards him from an adjoining room, Belstaff flapping behind him like the wings of an angry bird of prey. He shoved a few men out of his way, eyes frantic.

“John, are you alright?” he asked, stopping mere inches away from John and looking as though he were barely restraining himself from running his hands over him to check for injuries.

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” he said tiredly, putting his weight onto one leg.

“You’re not,” Sherlock said, sounding wretched. “Your leg… and shoulder?”

“Yeah, hit me right on my scar, the bastard,” John said. Sherlock couldn’t have looked worse than if it had happened to him, guilt etched into every line of his face.

“Why didn’t you stay with me?” he said, fretting, still looking John up and down as if he could will the pain away.

“I’m alright, you muppet,” said John, soothing. He was touched that Sherlock was reacting this way, and in public no less. “Just a bit bruised, I promise.” Sherlock did not look convinced, but something distracted his attention. Rousseau had just run into the room, gun drawn, several more officers behind him.

“He came in this way, what happened to him?” he cried.

“We don’t know,” John said, reaching out to grab Sherlock by the forearm as he looked about ready to start something with the arrogant Chief of Police.

There was a lot of shouting in French then, with people gesturing this way and that, groups sent to investigate different options, but continuing to return empty handed. Sherlock explained to John that the general gist was the thief had disappeared into thin air. No one seemed to be able to answer the question of if the replica had been stolen or not, and after twenty minutes of this, Rousseau approached where Sherlock and John were standing.

“Holmes, you’re the only one with the code,” Rousseau said. “Come with me so we can check the egg room.”

“No,” said Sherlock, loudly. Some of the nearby conversation stopped.

“No?” echoed Rousseau, obviously not used to hearing the word.

“No, I will not open the door. There is something strange going on here, and to be quite frank, Chief Rousseau, I do not trust you.”

Rousseau stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. It was not a happy sound.

“ _You?_ You do not trust _me?_ ”

“Too right,” added John stoutly. “What were you doing in here, breaking patrol?” Several more people started to pay attention. Rousseau’s eyes glinted.

“I didn’t break patrol,” he said, face blank.

“Yes, you did,” John said, even louder. “You broke patrol, and you walked down the east corridor, then towards the inner galleries. I know, because I followed you.” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to hold him by the forearm. “So why are you lying?”

John saw the decision in Rousseau’s eyes even as he made it, and stepped to the side to get immediately in front of Sherlock as the gun came up.

“John!” Sherlock breathed in upset from behind him. John had reached around blindly and managed to grab both of Sherlock’s wrists, effectively pinning him in place.

“Stay still,” John advised, not taking his eyes off Rousseau's. There was more concerned shouting in French from all around them, and Rousseau’s red eyes darted from side to side, trying to see if more weapons had been raised. The guards and police were obviously confused as to what was going on. “Don’t you see?” John said loudly. “He stole _Winter_!” He saw some of the young officers hiss at each other, some shaking their heads. Rousseau’s gun did not waver. He said something stern in French, and there was a sudden silence. Sherlock flexed his arms but John did not let go.

“No, Doctor Watson. It was you who stole _Winter_ ,” he said, smile turning very nasty indeed. “You, and Mr. Holmes here.”

John gaped at him.

“You can’t be serious,” he said faintly.

“You just admitted yourself that you broke patrol,” Rousseau said happily. “And now Mr. Holmes refuses to open the door, how convenient. Could that be because the egg is no longer there?”

“We didn’t steal your egg, you idiot!” snarled Sherlock, his angry breath wafting over John’s hair. “And why are you pointing a gun at us? If you think we did it, arrest us and put the gun down!” Rousseau’s eyes narrowed.

“No…” he said thoughtfully. “I think I like you better at gunpoint, Mr. Holmes.”

“What is going on here?”

It was Henri Bernard. He walked briskly over to them, looking at the gun askance. He was wearing a black suit and shirt, with a black beret perched on his head at a rather jaunty angle.

“Mr. Bernard?” Rousseau said, nonplussed. “You aren’t supposed to be here…”

“No, indeed,” Bernard said. “Thankfully, someone told me I should be.” A few more police officers had appeared behind him, and one stepped forward to confront Rousseau.

“Capitaine Rousseau, I am Commandant Aubert. You will lower your weapon and step away from the civilian.” John resisted the urge to fall into parade rest at the sound of an experienced senior officer.

“Commandant, you don’t understand..”

“And I am not interested in understanding,” the man said, extending his hand. “Surrender your weapon, now.” There was a moment where John tensed his muscles in readiness for the shot, Sherlock trying to slip out from behind him, but it passed as Rousseau handed over his gun with a show of great reluctance. Sherlock flexed his wrists again, and John let him go. Rousseau looked over at them both, murder on his face.

“Capitaine!” Aubert said smartly. “You will come with me, and you will explain yourself.” Three of his men moved to form a circle around the seething Chief. “And perhaps tomorrow,” Aubert added to the group, “Mr. Bernard will be good enough to explain what happened here tonight?” Bernard nodded, and Aubert and his men led Rousseau away and out of the room, closely followed by the remaining police officers.

“So he did steal the replica _Winter?_ ” John asked Bernard.

“Actually, no,” said Bernard. He looked… embarrassed. “No, the thief was caught on camera, and it was not Chief Rousseau. However, the idiot was going to make his own attempt.”

“How do you know it wasn’t him?” Sherlock asked, coming to stand by John’s side. He was looking anywhere but at John, face flushed.

“Mr. Rousseau may be a strong and ruthless individual,” Bernard said, “But the thief we have on camera is rather more… acrobatic, than I believe Mr. Rousseau is able to be.”

“Acrobatic?” said John, seeing red. _Diego_.

“Hmm, yes,” said Bernard, obviously distracted as he started spouting off directions in rapid French to his security guards and not noticing John’s sudden bout of rage.

“Well then, where is he?” John snarled. Sherlock did look at him then, eyes very wide. “Did you catch him?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. The thief escaped, but not to worry, Doctor Watson, we got what we wanted. We now know the limitations of our security and can adapt accordingly. I invite you to come back tomorrow morning for a full explanation - there are damages and other things I must attend to now.”

“But…”

“The point of all this was not to catch a thief,” Sherlock said quietly in his ear, and with some urgency. “Rousseau couldn’t let that part of all of this go.” He touched John on the elbow. “Can _you?_ ”

John stared back at him, unable to answer.

************************************************************

Sherlock had spent a rather hideous night sitting wide awake and staring at nothing, brain whirring through computations of all the horrible ways the following morning might go. The previous night, he and John had returned to the hotel in stony silence - John seemed too angry to even explain _why_ he was angry, and Sherlock had been too despondent to try and engage him. Everything was going wrong - this trip to Paris was supposed to be _fun_ , perhaps even bring them closer together, but instead they had had a gun pulled on them, been accused of being international jewel thieves, and John was absolutely furious.

Sherlock was so lost that he had even considered trying to call Rosie as she had a knack for giving advice, but held off at the last moment. She was off living her own life, no doubt making her own mistakes, but learning who she was in the process. That part always seemed to be Sherlock’s problem - he didn’t learn from his mistakes, but just kept making the same ones over and over. He had thought this change of scenery was going to do him some good as well, but all his best-laid plans had ended in disaster. Hell, he and John hadn’t even managed to go ice skating without him getting injured, not to mention the injuries he had sustained during the chase at the Louvre.

When John had stepped between him and Rousseau’s gun he had honestly thought he was going to be sick. A harmless jaunt around the museum had turned deadly, and once again it was John who was going to suffer. Sherlock had cursed himself multiple times over - why did he have to be so stupid? Why did he have to get involved in these ridiculous situations, with these dangerous people, dragging John after him into mayhem and murder and death?

Bernard sent a car to collect them the next morning. John looked as tired as Sherlock felt, and though he did greet him with a flat, ‘good morning’, it felt awkward and stilted and frightful. John seemed like he wanted to say something but kept stopping himself, words on the tip of his tongue. Sherlock was quite sure he did not want to know what he was going to say.

Bernard greeted them as they entered his office. Aubert the police superintendent was there, but thankfully there was no sign of Rousseau. Sherlock scrutinized Bernard carefully - he seemed in good enough spirits. Whatever had happened the previous evening had obviously not had too detrimental an effect. The whole thing had at this point become a blur to Sherlock, and he was as eager to view the video as everyone else.

“So,” said Bernard with limited preamble. He turned his computer monitor towards them, and also had a floor plan of the Louvre pinned up behind him. “The thief entered via a different route this time - they came across this rooftop, down through this skylight, through the outer galleries and into the inner ones here. I’ll show you that part first,” he said, clicking on his remote control. A grainy black and white video feed started up, showing the mystery person all in black darting across a rooftop and pausing while they dealt with the alarm system of the skylight.

“How did he get past the police?” John asked, squinting hard at the screen. Sherlock looked closely too, but it was impossible with this video quality to make out much aside from a shadowy figure.

“We aren’t sure that he did,” said Aubert, sitting back in his chair. He was a rather large man, and he rested two large hands on his stomach as he watched the skylight on the screen open with minimal effort and the person slip inside. “In fact my current theory is that he never left after the break in the previous day. We all thought that he had been scared off by Mr. Bernard’s guard, but if he found a place to hide and went unnoticed until we started our patrols…”

“Clever,” Sherlock mused. John sent him a sharp look and shifted in his seat. Hmm. Apparently he was not supposed to be visibly impressed by any of this - note to self.

“This part is interesting,” said Bernard with some enthusiasm, switching to an internal camera feed. As they watched, the thief wrapped a long cord around their waist several times, then free-fell from the roof, spinning as the cord unravelled, to land spider-like a few inches from the floor. Aubert hummed in surprise, and Sherlock risked looking over at John. He did not look impressed or entertained, but rather more like he wanted to take the cord and strangle the figure with it - slowly. Sherlock sighed. This really was not going well at all.

On the screen, the figure lifted one leg straight up, wrapped it around the cord and used the leverage to pull themselves upright. With a final spin, they leapt off the cord, leaving it dangling there as they dashed off along the gallery wall. Bernard froze the feed.

“Very interesting!” said Aubert, nodding thoughtfully. John snorted. Sherlock sat a little lower in his seat.

“It’s not really, though, is it?” said John, apparently unable to hold back. “These people train for years to be able to do things like this. And Rousseau said there wouldn’t be any acrobatics!”

“That’s why it’s interesting,” said Bernard eagerly. “This display - it was entirely unnecessary.”

“What do you mean?” demanded John, looking between them all.

“He means there was no need for it,” Sherlock supplied, looking off to the side so he didn’t have to see John’s reaction. “There aren’t any lasers there, or pressure pads in the floor, or timers about to go off, or anything like that. Once they were through the skylight, the next alarm isn’t until they get to the door fifteen feet away.”

“So he was just showing off?” asked John dangerously. Sherlock winced.

“Exactly,” said Bernard. “But showing off to whom? That’s the really interesting question.”

John laughed, but it was not one that reached his eyes.

“Right.”

From what Sherlock could see on this video, the way the figure moved, held themselves, even ran, there really was only one person that it could be. Idiot! Why didn’t he make it less obvious, why did he insist on showing off like this? John had obviously reached the same conclusion and appeared to be holding on to his temper with only the slimmest measure of control.

Bernard showed the next piece of the video. The thief slipped from room to room, occasionally having to pause to deal with electronic locks that seemed to cause them little difficulty, and becoming one with the shadows whenever a patrol went by. It was only fifteen minutes from their dash across the rooftop to their arrival in the final room with the guard and passcode-protected door. The thief was on the hapless guard before he could even raise the alarm. Sherlock watched carefully, listing the moves that were made to incapacitate the man without causing too much in the way of injuries. He could see at least two places where the moves could have been improved, but there was little to deduce from that. All of the truly great thieves were able to render a guard irrelevant by some means or another… and he was grasping at straws. It was obvious who the thief was, obvious to him and obvious to John. He just hoped that John wasn’t going to tell Aubert, because that was really going to open a can of worms.

Once the guard was down (John was assured by Bernard that he was fully recovered already), the thief approached the key pad, entered a number and went in through the door. Bernard stopped the feed again, and three sets of eyes turned slowly to Sherlock.

He had been expecting this of course. Though Bernard had been circumspect with his information the previous evening, it had been obvious that someone had at least gotten into the locked room. Sherlock held up his hands and shrugged.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he said, injecting all possible sincerity into his tone. “Did you?”

“No,” said Bernard. “But it has since been pointed out to me that there are several ways the code could have been intercepted. I am not blaming you, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock lowered his hands, though Aubert was still giving him some side-eye. Bernard turned off the video.

“Wait, where is the rest?” asked Aubert.

“I have been advised to keep the rest of the evening’s events confidential,” said Bernard, but the happiness that he had been trying to hold back all morning was bubbling to the surface. “But do you see, Mr. Holmes? It worked! Your idea, it worked. The thief emailed me late last night with all of the different ways they could have gotten in and out, the ways they could have exploited various members of staff, and ideas on how to keep the real _Winter_ safe while it is here. It is really quite ingenious stuff, I don’t mind saying so.”

John had folded his arms and was smiling the faint smile he usually wore just before someone got injured. Part of Sherlock wanted to shout, ‘Don’t tell him!’ but of course that would just make things so much worse. He did manage to catch John’s eye, and tried to plead with him through looks alone. John certainly got the message, but rather than roll his eyes and smirk like he might have done in the past, he frowned, sitting further back in his chair. He looked… sad. Sad was the only way to describe it.

“So you have more than earned your fee, Mr. Holmes,” Bernard said, rising to his feet. He opened his desk drawer and took out a cream envelope with gilt edges, passing it to Sherlock. Sherlock put it in his inner pocket automatically - one look at John’s posture and he knew it hadn’t been worth it. “I have of course already given the ransom to 'Jack Frost' as per their instructions.”

“Reward,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Yes, reward. Of course…”

“Jack Frost?” John asked.

“Yes, quite fitting don’t you think? The thief who tried to steal winter.”

“They did get the replica egg in the end though?” checked Aubert, also rising from his chair ponderously.

“Well… actually no. Not as such. They certainly could have.”

“Strange,” mused Aubert. “To go to all that trouble for nothing?”

“A million pounds,” said John sullenly. Bernard cleared his throat, looking a little less happy.

“Yes that, but… they also… _borrowed_ , something else,” he admitted. He walked out from around his desk and went on before anyone could speak, “But we are assured that the missing item will be turned in to a member of law enforcement by New Year’s Day.” He shepherded them all towards the door.

“Why would you believe anything this person says?” asked John, frowning as they went out into the hallway.

“Because as it turns out, Doctor Watson, there actually is honor among thieves.”

*********************************************************

The three of them emerged back into the noon sun. John squinted a little. He had barely got any sleep, the events of the evening churning over and over in his thoughts, shoulder throbbing along in counterpoint. Exhaustion was starting to weigh him down, and all he really wanted to do was get back to the hotel and back into bed and shut out the rest of the world.

“Well, it has been a pleasure to meet both of you, however briefly,” said Aubert, shaking both of their hands.

“Yes,” said John, trying to summon up a smile.

“And Rousseau?” asked Sherlock.

“Relieved of duty,” said Aubert solemnly. “Pulling a gun with live ammunition on civilians? It is still under discussion, but it is likely he will be brought up on a charge for that.”

“Mr. Bernard seemed to think he was also trying for the reward money?” John asked, remembering.

“Oui, he was. It was an extremely clumsy attempt. I was already with Mr. Bernard in his office with my men, when Rousseau started tripping alarm after alarm. We watched the video feed and could see you following him, Doctor. Very brave of you!” John felt his ears go a bit red at that, but he was not in the mood for compliments. After all, Diego had got away, not only with no repercussions, but with a million pounds to play with as well.

If John was asked to describe the evening, he would have said, ‘epic failure’.

“From what Rousseau has said in the interview room,” Aubert continued, “the plan was to steal the egg and then implicate you, Mr. Holmes.”

“That, or shoot me,” Sherlock said flippantly. John glared at him, but stopped short. Sherlock looked pale, tired, and unhappy. John would have thought he would be crowing with delight that Diego had pulled it all off, but instead he looked like … well, he looked like John felt.

“Hmm, yes,” agreed Aubert. “Lucky for you, you have your brave Doctor with you.” Sherlock looked away, and John swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Look me up, should you ever be in Paris again,” said Aubert, and with a wave he turned and walked away.

Sherlock stepped over to the kerb, arm raised to hail a taxi. John went to stand next to him, having no idea what to say. They stood there for a minute, not looking at each other, until a taxi pulled up. John got in, but instead of joining him, Sherlock closed the door, still outside.

“Hôtel Plaza Athénée,” he said to the driver through the front window. He glanced back at John, looking a little apologetic. “I have an errand to run, I’ll follow along soon,” he said. In the past John would have demanded to know where he was going, or why he had to go right this second, but he was far too tired and wrung out. He only nodded, then looked resolutely out of his own window. Sherlock tapped the roof of the cab twice, and they pulled out into traffic without him.

**********************************************************

Around an hour later, and John hadn’t been able to settle. He had paced from one side of his room to the other, rehearsing and retracting what he was going to say to Sherlock. Because he had to say something - things could not continue on the way that they were. He was obviously making Sherlock miserable, and none of this was doing him any favors either. Something had to give, and it had to be today. He found himself sitting close to the door of his suite, waiting for a sign that Sherlock had returned to his room across the hall. As soon as he heard the familiar footsteps, he jumped up and flung the door open.

Sherlock turned to look at him, surprised, key card in hand. After a moment the surprise turned into caution, and John supposed he couldn’t blame him.

“Can we talk?” John managed to force out. Sherlock’s face fell, but he nodded, unlocking his door and gesturing at it. John grabbed his own key card and walked quickly across the hall and into Sherlock’s suite… though it wasn’t a suite. It was a much smaller room than John’s…

He didn’t have time to think about it though, because the door was closing, and there they were. Sherlock paused by the door, coat collar turned up like armor, but didn’t seem to know what to do next. John went and perched on the edge of the bed, allowing Sherlock to move to sit in the one available chair. Sherlock continued to regard him with some trepidation.

“OK,” John started, wanting to jump right in before he lost his nerve. “So… I think I know what’s going on here.” Sherlock didn’t react, aside from his eyes getting slightly wider. “You and Diego… you were in on it together, right?” Sherlock leaned back.

“... what?” His voice was very hard to read.

“Look, it’s alright. I was… well you know. I was pissed off, really pissed off, because I thought… well it doesn’t matter. I just wanted to let you know that if you want to go off to Chile, then…” and at this point he had to take a deep breath but he made himself keep going, “... then… I’m not going to stop you. I think… I think you should go.”

He forced himself to look at Sherlock’s face, having delivered this little speech to his knees, and was taken aback to see Sherlock looking a little grey. The man opened his mouth, about to speak, but after a few beats seemed to think better of it and closed it again. He looked towards an empty wall, apparently no idea what to say in response.

“You think…” he finally said, voice a wisp of the usual thrum, “...you think that I helped Diego steal from the Louvre?” He was still staring at the wall, eyebrows drawn.

“Who else could it have been? You had the code, he had the skills,” John said softly. “I think you saw an opportunity to have some fun…” Sherlock snorted at that, looking back at him, and John stopped at the look in his eyes. He was quite obviously distressed, and John knew he had to get them both through this before it got very ugly.

“Fun,” Sherlock echoed. “Yes, it was supposed to be fun.” He hung his head for a moment, visibly pulling himself together, and when he raised it again his face was set, though his eyes were still bright. “Who else could it have been, you ask? Let’s count, shall we?” He stood up and began pacing the small room like a caged animal. John was at a loss how to de-escalate matters, so let him be.

“First,” said Sherlock, peering down at him as he passed, his energy a little manic, “There is Rousseau. A gambler who recently lost everything on the wrong bet, and had his name smeared in the local newspapers. As Chief of Police he had access to all the details of the Louvre security, and was extremely annoyed at the prospect of having ‘Sherlock Holmes’ come over to his city and humiliate him. By stealing the replica, he would not only get a million pounds, but also regain some of his lost standing as an officer to be reckoned with.”

“It wasn’t him, though, was it,” said John with intensity. He didn’t want Sherlock to go through all this, but it seemed he was determined.

“How do you know?” barked Sherlock, pacing by him again. “Yes he miscalculated and made a mistake with the gun, driven by emotion, but the best way to hide a crime is to cover it with another one. You lost him in the hallways - he could have laid out his bungled attempt as a cover, and then gone for the egg room in a real attempt to steal it.”

“That’s one interpretation of events…” John acquiesced, not believing it for a moment.

"And you said that the thief hit you in the right shoulder? Rousseau knew that's where you were shot." Sherlock looked pained but the stubborn set to his jaw told John he wasn't going to stop.

John didn't have a response to that, as it was quite true.

“Second,” Sherlock went on, voice rising. “We have Bernard himself. The Curator of the Louvre, suddenly informed that it will be his responsibility to safeguard a priceless treasure. First he tries to shift responsibility onto Rousseau, then when he proves inadequate he finds a new scapegoat - me. Then once I hand him enough rope to hang himself in the form of the replica robbery scheme, he thinks - you know what? I could really use a million pounds myself. He had the code for the door. Even Rousseau said it last night: he was not supposed to be there.”

“He couldn’t have tumbled down through a skylight like that…'' John said, but then when he started thinking about it he wondered if that were actually true. Bernard was certainly the right build… but then so was Rousseau. None of this changed, though, who had actually done it.

“Third,” said Sherlock, tone clipped, “we have Lex Harrison.”

“What!” gasped John, incredulous. Sherlock stopped his pacing, folding his arms to stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked slowly, mouth a straight line. “She has been laundering money through that orphanage for months. When you arrived, she saw a new cash cow, started following you and then me on Twitter. Once she heard about the heist it must have seemed too good to be true. Plus, she was literally an acrobat in her youth - even won a bronze medal in a world championship when she was nineteen.”

“How the hell do you know all that?” said John, getting angry now.

“One of the kids tipped me off,” Sherlock said flatly. “I investigated, it’s what I do. Can you really say you haven’t seen anything suspicious about her? She even called you just as we were meeting with Bernard in London.”

John gaped at him, but then a traitorous memory surfaced - that of Lex bouncing up a straight wall in order to score a point with a basketball, then acting as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. When she had called him, they had laughed together at the idea he was about to discuss a potential jewel robbery with the Curator of the Louvre. He thought of the line she spun him about needing to get Sherlock involved in the Christmas Day event, and felt ill. Why was he so blind when it came to trusting people? But Harry had been the one to get him involved at Abbott House. She thought volunteering there would help him bury some of the ghosts of his past, when they had both spent time in similar places… The sick feeling turned poisonous, and there was only one person close enough to take it out on.

“Fourth,” he said angrily taking over, standing up and stalking closer to Sherlock who held his ground, “we have Diego. A master-thief, he knew all about the heist, easily had the skills to pull it all off, including that ridiculous display of acrobatics through the skylight.” Sherlock’s cheeks reddened a little at that, but otherwise no response. “He’s here in Paris, and all he needed in the end was the last code for the last door. He stole your magnifying glass to get your attention, get you to play the game.” John was right in front of Sherlock now, who barely seemed to be breathing. “Then, he broke into the Louvre the evening before to take out the guard, knowing that he would need to be replaced, and that as soon as you saw the magnifying glass you wouldn’t be able to resist joining in as well. You gave him the code, because you wanted to see what would happen - you wanted to see if he could do it. He set it all up, a game for the two of you, and the rest of us were just the audience.” He choked on the last word and had to turn away from Sherlock’s increasingly shuttered face.

“That’s why you brought me here, wasn’t it?” He said to the closed door. “You’ve told me enough times before: _genius needs an audience_. I know you’ve been bored, especially since Rosie left. I can’t… I can’t blame you for wanting something more. I can’t blame you because… because that’s what I wanted, too.” There was no response from behind him, not even any sound of movement. He had to blink back the sting of tears at the lack of reaction.

“So now I guess you’ve got enough money to make a new start in Chile,” John said with some difficulty, knowing his voice was wavering but unable to stop it. He put one hand flat on the door, trying to steady himself. “And… it’s OK, you know. It really is. I think you should go. It’s… it’s what’s best.”

More silence. John sniffed, nodding to himself, heart breaking. He reached for the door handle.

“What about Christmas?” Sherlock whispered. Of all the things he could have said... John swallowed a few times around the thickness in his throat, needing to get out of there.

“It’s just a day,” he said. “It’s fine. I expect the orphanage will have a new director, you don’t need to be there. You can just… you can go. Go and…” he stopped, knowing what he had to say but wishing hard he didn’t have to say it. This was so painful, but he cared about Sherlock so much. He just wanted him to be happy again.

“Go and be with him,” he said finally, then opened the door and escaped into the corridor. He closed it again with a final click, pausing against his will.

Sherlock didn’t come after him.

The next morning, December 21st, John went back to London alone.

**********************************************************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final part will be posted on Christmas Day!
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments :-D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now complete!

It had been a wretched few days. John had arrived back in their quiet flat, sat in his armchair and just stared into space for a while, wondering where it all went wrong. The more he thought about it though, he only came up with more questions. He remembered Diego manipulating him into agreeing to go to Paris - did he just want John there to humiliate him, to show off how boring and _normal_ he was compared to the daring master-thief? Had Sherlock wanted to show off, too? Well, that was at least easy to answer: Sherlock always wanted to show off. 

Maybe once Sherlock came back to London ( _if he came back_ , a nasty voice whispered in his head), they might be able to have a calmer conversation about it… but John was not hopeful. Sherlock had seemed genuinely confused that John had not found the whole thing entertaining - another grand adventure for Holmes and Watson. Probably because he just didn’t understand how important it had been to John. How he had wanted to show that they didn’t need the cases, the risks, the danger in order to be important to each other. There had been a while there that he had thought Sherlock was trying to show him the same thing too...

John had hoped, in among shifts at the surgery and sleepless nights, that it might not be too late to salvage things - but on Christmas Eve came the final blow. A packing service arrived at the flat, and an apologetic young lady dipped into Sherlock’s room, emerging an hour later with a large packed suitcase. Completely lacking in self-preservation skills, John had asked where it was being delivered to. The answer, while not a surprise, took the air out of him and he had sagged where he stood - Chile. Sherlock’s things were being sent to Chile. 

Not a word, not even a text to say goodbye? John had dashed into Sherlock’s room, noting what had been packed and what hadn’t, but it was impossible to guess what the intent was behind the selection. Yes, Sherlock’s scientific equipment was still there, but he could buy that new in any major city. A lot of his clothes were gone, but John couldn’t guess at how many days absence that suggested. Yes, his violin was also still there, but for all John knew there was another courier service on route to the flat this very moment to collect that as well. 

Realising he was breathing a little too quickly, he had gone back into the living room and ended up curled up in Sherlock’s chair, staring at his phone. He could call. He _should_ call…

But what was left to say? He had told Sherlock to go and be with Diego, said that it was best, and Sherlock had said nothing. He obviously agreed with him, if the departed suitcase was anything to go by. He was probably already on a plane, heading for a new life. An exciting life, with an exciting man…

John had put his phone away. 

He had indulged in a few tears, alone in the flat on Christmas Eve night, sunk low in Sherlock’s chair. Part of him knew he needed to feel this, to really understand it was real. One of the most important people in his life was gone, out of reach, but even with these melancholy thoughts John didn’t blame Sherlock for any of it. It was his nature to need excitement in his life, something that John no longer provided. He would be much happier with Diego, John tried to convince himself, though it tore him up to even think it. 

It was with an extremely heavy heart that he dragged himself to Abbott House on Christmas morning. He had to go - he owed it to the kids. He knew what it was like to be left in places like that, to have nowhere else to go. He and Harry had drifted from institution to institution for months at a time when they were younger, and he knew it had left marks upon them both. He couldn’t beg off now, no matter how much he wanted to - plus Greg was taking the time to go as well and John didn’t want to let him or the unknown new Director down. However, the one task he had promised to accomplish for the events that day, ‘bring Sherlock Holmes’, had proven impossible after all. 

********************************** 

There were two main events planned for the day: the morning visit from Santa Claus (thankfully not played by John in this situation as he knew he couldn’t have handled it), then the afternoon Christmas Fair run by the kids and other volunteers. When John arrived, the outside space was a flurry of activity as the stalls were being set up, and he pushed his way through the throng towards the main entrance. There was a light dusting of snow which was being shaken off tarps and decorations: not enough to call it a ‘white Christmas’, but the sky was grey with the possibility of more. 

He got inside the hall, stomping his feet to get the circulation going again, bags swinging from his hands. He had brought along his gift for Greg and one for the new Director, as originally they were all supposed to take part in opening their gifts ‘from Santa’ along with the kids. 

The restored antique microscope that he had bought for Sherlock remained back in Baker Street, hidden in the back of his wardrobe. 

“Hi Doctor Watson,” called a familiar voice. It was Charlie, looking around at the comings and goings with interest. “Merry Christmas.” He was wearing a neon green and bright red Christmas jumper with ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ picked out across the front in white lettering. 

“Merry Christmas, Charlie,” said John tiredly. “Nice jumper.”

Charlie scowled at him and picked at the front of it. 

“Yeah well… the new Director said we should all ‘get in the spirit’,” the kid groused but without any real feeling, turning away from him. “Follow me, I’m supposed to show people where to go.” 

Charlie led him to one of the rooms that had been converted from a large sitting room, where there was a massive Christmas tree and an ornate fireplace. A wooden rocking chair had been brought in and there was a sign on it proclaiming, ‘ _Reserved for Santa!_ ’ Under the tree and on a long table next to it were a multitude of brightly wrapped presents. John took off his coat and hung it up on a stand with a lot of others. 

“You can put your presents over there,” Charlie said, and John noted another smaller table also piled with gifts, presumably for the guests. He added his to the pile, eyeing the rest of them with mild curiosity.

“Where’s Mr. Holmes?” asked Charlie. John grimaced, knowing that this was the first of many similar questions. 

“Actually… he’s not coming.” 

“What!” 

John startled at Greg’s loud exclamation. He was standing behind John, a sprinkling of snow on his shoulders and clutching a shopping bag full of gifts. 

“What do you mean, ‘he’s not coming’?” Greg asked in an accusatory tone. 

“Hello Greg, yeah I’m fine thanks for asking…” John said with weary sarcasm. Greg frowned, then nudged him out of the way so he could put his gifts down. 

“You don’t look fine. You look like total crap.” 

“Greg…” John cautioned, nodding his head at Charlie. 

“Nah, he’s right,” agreed Charlie. “Total crap.” 

“Why isn’t he coming?” Greg asked again, shrugging out of his coat and shaking it over the fireplace. John could see more flakes of snow were starting to fall outside the window. 

“He’s gone on a trip,” he said quietly, and hoped Greg would leave it at that. 

“A trip? That git!” exclaimed Greg from the coat stand, looking angrier about the turn of events than John expected. “I should have known he would pull something like this! Now I’m going to be stuck with Mycroft all day!” John blinked a few times. 

“Mycroft…?”

“Yes! Wait, let me guess. He didn’t tell you. That little…” 

“Wait, wait. Stop.” John said, raising his hands to stall what was no doubt going to be an impressive rant. “Mycroft is coming here?” 

“He’s already here, I just saw him outside,” growled Greg. “Annoying, posh bas-...” John stepped heavily on his foot, nodding more aggressively at Charlie. “Ow!”

“Yeah well, stop swearing,” John snapped. 

“Doctor Watson…” Charlie said.

“What did Mycroft say?” John asked Greg, who was rubbing his foot on the back of his other calf and glaring at him. “And what is he doing here?” 

“He said Sherlock invited him, then something about, ‘he thought we might get along’,” Greg said, looking down his nose and affecting a posh accent. 

“Doctor Watson…” Charlie said again, tugging on his sleeve.

“What does that mean?” John said, feeling anxious. 

“Doctor Watson!”

“Yes! Yes. Sorry Charlie. What is it?” 

“If Mr. Holmes isn’t coming,” the boy said, letting go of John’s arm and stepping towards the gift table, “then why are these presents here?” 

Frowning, John looked where Charlie was pointing. He moved a few gifts aside, and sure enough there were three gifts wrapped with Victorian-style wrapping paper at the back, and all the labels were stamped and postmarked having come through the post. The largest flat, square package had a label with familiar spidery handwriting, ‘ _To Lestrade. Something I know you will enjoy. Sherlock Holmes._ ’ A prickle flowed over John’s skin, and he ran his thumb over the ink. A quick look at the stamps confirmed that they were French. From the size and shape of the parcel, he would guess it was more vinyl to add to Greg’s collection. The next one was a small box, and on the label was written, ‘ _To Mycroft. Try not to mess this up._ ’ He hadn’t bothered to add his name to this one, and John dreaded to think what it might be. The last one was the size of a tissue box and for a second John’s heart leapt, only to plummet in confusion. 

‘ _To Harriet Watson. Best of luck - you will need it. Sherlock Holmes._ ’

There were no more packages. 

“Uh… John?” Lestrade was peering over his shoulder and reading the label on the box he still had in his hands. “Why is Sherlock sending your sister Christmas gifts?” 

“I…”

“John! You made it!” They both turned towards the door as Harry came barrelling towards them. She was wearing a green dress covered in tinsel and had an LED star somehow perched on the top of her silver-blonde hair. John gaped at her. He was starting to wonder if he had actually woken up that morning, or was still sleeping back in Baker Street. 

“Harry…” he said faintly. She grinned and swooped in to kiss him on both cheeks. “What… what are you doing here?” he asked, bemused. Harriet’s grin faded a little and she peered closely at him. 

“Didn’t Sherlock tell you?” she asked, and John actually wobbled slightly. “Whoah, John, are you alright?” 

“Didn’t Sherlock tell me _what_?” John asked her intently. 

“He set it up somehow that I’m the new Director here. Trial basis, but…”

“‘Set it up somehow’,” echoed a weary voice from behind her. John looked up from Harry’s concerned face to see Mycroft joining the group, and felt like pinching himself to check that all this was actually happening. Mycroft was in one of his ubiquitous suits, his only concession to the day, a sprig of holly pinned neatly to one lapel. “I’m just, ‘somehow’, am I?” he asked, eyebrow arched. 

“Well, you might have helped,” Harry said in a teasing tone, nudging his foot with hers. Mycroft looked down at the contact, looking vaguely aghast. “My background in youth counselling might have had something to do with it as well, you know.” Mycroft merely hummed in vague agreement and edged slightly backwards, John assumed to avoid being touched again. 

“Will someone please tell me what is going on?” demanded John loudly, and even Harry frowned at him. 

“Santa is here!” 

There was a sudden ruckus from outside and within, as most of the adults and children - even Charlie - moved outside to see Santa Claus arrive. Harry moved to go as well, but John grabbed her by the arm, a sense of urgency creeping in. 

“Harry… _please…_ ”

She looked very worried. 

“John, I don’t know what to tell you, I thought you knew all about this. It’s been in the news,” she said, fishing her phone out of her dress pocket. She typed something in then showed him the screen.

‘ _Miss Harrison? More Like Miss Hannigan!_ ’ There was a photo of Lex being led towards a police car, hands cuffed behind her and snarling at the press. ‘ _New Scotland Yard Saves Christmas!_ ’ was written underneath. Greg was on the edge of the photo, and John turned to stare at him in question.

“Sorry, John,” he said, rubbing at the back of his head and looking contrite. “I thought you knew about this as well - Sherlock sent me some information about this Lex Hannigan… sorry, Harrison... and it turned out she has been stealing funds from the Abbott House Foundation since she first arrived. Plus once we got her prints, we found she is connected to a string of other cons as well. Bit of a feather in my cap, tell the truth. He didn’t tell you?”

“Well… yeah he did say something a couple days ago…” _Before I told him to leave_ , John’s brain helpfully supplied. As he went to hand the phone back to Harry, he saw the next headline. 

‘ _The Louvre Wishes ‘Jack Frost’ a Very Merry Christmas!_ ’ 

“So then…”, John stumbled, trying to marshall his thoughts. “...He invited you..?” he asked, turning to Mycroft who was observing the conversation with his usual look of barely-restrained boredom.

“Yes,” he said, tapping his umbrella on the floor. “Said it was in my best interests to put in an appearance and that he was leaving a gift for me.” 

“And you just… believed him?” John said, surprised. Mycroft squinted at him. 

"Yes? Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Because you two have not always been one hundred percent honest with each other, especially at Christmas!”

Mycroft looked genuinely confused. 

“Sherlock loves Christmas, Doctor Watson. Even when he has been in the middle of one of his little plots, in fact even that interesting interlude involving Magnussen, none of us were ever in danger, and he informed me of exactly what he was doing.” Excited people were starting to file back into the room, staff attempting to corral the kids into something resembling order. A man dressed as one of the more upmarket versions of Santa Claus was being ushered inside, with many a ‘ho, ho, ho!’. “Imagine how surprised I was to learn that he wasn’t coming today,” Mycroft continued, a little louder to be heard above the din. He gave John a stern look then, and John felt suddenly incredibly guilty. 

Santa Claus was getting settled in his rocking chair and the room got too noisy to carry on the conversation. John didn’t know what to think - Sherlock had orchestrated an amazing new job for his sister, removed the apparently criminal Lex by handing Greg a front-page news-worthy, heart-warming arrest, and had managed to thaw the icy heart of Mycroft Holmes enough to get him to come to spend Christmas Day with a bunch of orphans... all while he had been in Paris with John and consulting on security at the Louvre. 

_But he still left_ , his inner voice reminded him, and the sadness and regret that broke over John at that moment made him lean back against the gift table. Lestrade shot him a concerned glance, but John just shook his head. 

The room was settling down now - kids all squashed in on the various sofas and chairs, or squeezed together on the carpeted floor. The older ones were trying to appear unaffected, but the excitement rolling off the younger ones was obviously infectious. The staff were peering through the doors at the scene, grinning, some taking photos with their phones. John, Greg, Mycroft and Harry were all pressed against the wall at the back. 

Santa Claus rang a brass bell that he took from his pocket. 

“Well, hello boys and girls!” he said, and there were some giggles and some shy ‘hello’s’ from the group. “I’m very happy to see you today - Miss Watson has told me how very good you have all been this year, taking care of each other and asking for help when you need it. I know it’s been a bit of a difficult time,” he said kindly, gaze moving from face to face from behind his impressive white beard and moustache - and John saw some of the staff glance at each other meaningfully as well. Apparently it was not only the kids who had suffered under the leadership of Lex Harrison. Santa was still speaking, “... but she tells me that you were all so good, helping the police, staying calm, and comforting each other. You are all on my nice list, and you all deserve a round of applause for that,” he said, clapping his gloved hands. The adults joined in first, but soon the kids were clapping as well, some more bashful about it than others. John noted Charlie looking especially pleased, and wondered how much he had been to do with the arrest. As he watched, Charlie raised his hand. 

“Santa?” 

“Yes, dear boy?” Santa asked. 

“Well… we all think Miss Watson is going to be good. She’s fun, like Doctor Watson,” he said gesturing back at John. John felt himself blush hotly as a host of smiling faces glanced back to look at him, and Greg gave him a hearty pat on the back. “So, if it’s alright with you, we wanted to say welcome to her, and let her go first with the presents.” 

There were some ‘aww’s’ from the adults at that. Charlie rolled his eyes at them, but waited for an answer while some of the other kids clapped at his idea. 

“Well, that’s the Christmas spirit right there!” said Santa, rocking back and forth on his chair. “Miss Watson, why don’t you bring one of your gifts over here and open it first?” 

"You can sit on his knee, Miss,” came a catcall from one of the older girls. Giggles erupted like bright bubbles popping over the scene.

“Uh… you know I think it’s a bit difficult for me to get through,” Harry said, catching Santa’s eye meaningfully. “But I’m happy to open a present over here!” She turned to the table, then flicked John an assessing glance. “I’ll open… this one.” 

She picked up the present from Sherlock, and John had to fight an impulse to leave the room or turn away. She pulled off the label to save it, putting it in her pocket, then started to carefully peel back the wrapping, apparently trying to save it as well.

“Just rip it, Miss!” came a call, and she gave the room an exasperated look. “Rip it, rip it…” started a chant.

“Oh, OK fine,” she finally laughed, and made a show of ripping the paper off with some abandon and letting it settle around her on the floor. There were happy laughs all around. Everyone had turned to watch - some of the kids kneeling backwards on the chairs to get a better view. 

It was a box with ‘La Maison du Chocolat’ printed on the side, causing some appreciative ‘Ooo’s’ from the staff and some disappointed sounds from the kids. Harry grinned for a moment, but then looked at the box a little more closely. She rattled it slightly and frowned. 

“Hang on a second…” she said, fiddling with the side of the box and opening it. She peered inside, tilted it, and an envelope fell out into her hand. 

A cream, gilt-edged envelope. 

John stared at it, a roaring sound beginning somewhere at the back of his mind. 

With a happy but confused smile to the room, Harry read from the envelope, ‘ _For the future and security of Abbott House - a gift_.’ She ran a nail under the flap, opening it up and pulled out a single slip of paper. She read it. 

She read it again. 

She stumbled backwards slightly, grabbing at the table in support, face chalk-white. 

“What is it, Miss Watson?” the Santa asked with a hint of concern. John was frozen in place, the roaring getting louder. 

Harry cleared her throat, looking around the room in a somewhat dazed fashion before her eyes settled on John’s. All at once her face changed, some intense emotion appearing there, and her eyes were wet. She kept her eyes locked on his as she answered,

“It’s… it’s a cashier’s cheque. For… one million pounds.” 

For a second, there was total silence in the room. 

“WHAT?” shouted Santa, standing up, and suddenly there was chaos. Greg leapt forward and grabbed Harry by the elbow, dragging her out of the room and away from all the noise. Mycroft started to go after them, then with a sigh grabbed John by the shoulder and tugged him along as well. The other staff surged into the room as they left, trying to restore order, and John distantly wished them luck with that. 

Greg led the group across the hall and into a much smaller empty room, the squeals and shouts of delight audible even through two sets of heavy doors. He nudged Harry to sit down in a spindly chair. Mycroft parked John unceremoniously next to a bookcase then moved away to stand looking out of the window at the falling snow. 

“Can I see?” asked Greg, and Harry handed him the paper and envelope with a shaking hand. Greg looked it over, then whistled under his breath. 

“That’s the real thing alright. I guess that answers the question of who ‘Jack Frost’ was.” He looked at John with raised eyebrows, handing the cheque back to Harry. “Doesn’t explain whatever the other thing was that he borrowed from the Louvre though…”

John barely heard him, the roaring sound like water thundering past his ears, erasing all thought in the onslaught. He turned his head with great difficulty, staring at Mycroft’s back. “But…” he tried, lips a little numb. “...but why…”

Mycroft sighed and then slowly turned back to look at him. 

“Who knows why my brother does anything,” he said, and there was definitely something disapproving in the way he was looking at John. “Aside from you, possibly,” he added with a sniff. “However, he did mention something about… _a grand gesture_?”

John gasped involuntarily, and it was like his head had broken the surface of the water. He blinked at Mycroft, then wheeled towards Harry. 

“Harry… the label, give me the label…” he said, words running together in his haste. Harry fished in her pocket and pulled out the gift label and held it out to him. John grabbed it with both hands and turned it over to look at the stamps and postmark. 

December 20th, 12:27pm. It had been mailed _before_ he and Sherlock had their disastrous conversation in Sherlock’s hotel room. 

Before John had told him to leave. 

John stared at it a second longer, then handed it back and walked the two paces to stand in front of Mycroft. Mycroft literally looked down his nose at him. 

“Do you know where he is?” John asked, voice small, but there was a thrum bouncing through his veins as if by the beat of an enormous drum. “Am I too late?” 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and ran them over his face. John put all of his hopes and fears out there for him to see. Let him deduce what he would. 

Whatever Mycroft saw on his face must have been enough, as his expression softened infinitesimally. 

“He should be in Chile by now…” John swallowed painfully. “... But he couldn’t get a flight out of Paris so close to Christmas. Sherlock returned to London yesterday on the 24th, and spent the night in a hotel. He has a flight booked from Heathrow to Santiago that leaves in…” he peered at his watch, “... ninety minutes.” 

“What the hell have I missed?” exclaimed Greg, and John spun in place to grab him by the elbows. 

“Can you get me to Heathrow in an hour?” he said, gripping Greg’s arms hard. 

“Heathrow, from here? No, I don’t think so mate,” Greg said, still confused and trying to dislodge him. John’s hands suddenly felt weak, and they dropped to his sides. Greg peered at him more closely, then glanced at Mycroft and Harry. There was some kind of silent communication over John’s head.

“Ah… bugger it,” Greg announced loudly and with some feeling. “If I use the blues and twos, we’ll make it.” He grinned at John, and John felt a tiny flicker of hope spark in his chest. “Come on then! Can’t believe we’re going to race across the city to try and stop someone from getting on a plane… isn’t this from a film?”

“Love, Actually,” Harry supplied, her skin a much healthier color now the shock had worn off, and excitement in her eyes. 

“Hah, of course,” Greg laughed. “Let’s go! And you two - no opening anymore presents without us. Mycroft, text me the flight details, will you?” He ushered John out of the door and out of the building, and once John felt the brisk air and flakes of snow on his skin he felt his energy return. “Coats?” asked Greg, pausing, and John realized they both left them inside. 

“Are you crazy?” John said, pushing him in the back and on towards the car. “Get me to that airport!” 

************************************************** 

Sherlock was glad of his Belstaff as the metal airport seat threatened to leech all the heat out of its surroundings - including him. He had found an empty seat by the gate, facing the window, and was trying to let his mind go blank while he watched the ever-thickening snow come down. 

It wasn’t working. 

For a while he had tried scrolling mindlessly on his phone, but being faced with his mistakes over and over and in so public a manner had quickly become tiresome, so he had turned it off. ‘Jack Frost’ - how ridiculous. How ... _humiliating_. He had bought a mediocre branded coffee and croissant: the croissant sat in its paper bag on the chair next to him, forgotten, but he cradled the coffee in both hands. He felt like he was never going to be warm again. 

Would the cold follow him even to Chile? He supposed so. 

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to stop his thoughts from circling back to that awful, awful conversation with John, back in his Paris hotel room. He had been stunned to realize that John thought _Diego_ had been the shadowy figure in the video. That John thought Sherlock and Diego were working together. That it was Diego orchestrating everything, in order to _show off to Sherlock!_

If only John hadn’t left that night to follow Rousseau, curse the man. Sherlock had known things weren’t going well, but he had really thought that it would all be salvaged when John went with him on patrol - because that was when he was going to reveal the secret. _They_ were going to steal Winter. Well, the replica anyway. He and John. They were going to steal it together, come clean to Bernard, amaze Rousseau, and take the money back for the orphanage. They were going to be heroes, or anti-heroes, or whatever. John was going to be amazed, astounded, he was going to get a little bit angry but eventually he was going to smile that smile and they were going to run off through the streets of Paris and laugh and laugh… The ‘great Sherlock Holmes’ and Doctor Watson, thumbing their noses at the establishment, them against the rest of the world. It was the Buckingham Palace ashtray times a thousand, it was Robin Hood, and James Bond, and Ocean’s Twelve all rolled into one. It was all of John’s fantasies come to life - something Sherlock had truly thought John would _love_ … It was the _grand gesture_. 

Rosie had told him her theory of the ‘grand gesture’ the night before she left on her gap year. Sherlock had been sceptical, but after some thought (and research) he had started to think she might be onto something. John was getting restless, was thinking about dating, the work wasn’t keeping him occupied and he needed something more. Conversely, Sherlock needed John. He needed him for cases, for companionship, for cooking and conversation: about killers and thrillers and nothing at all. He needed him to sit in his chair and read his book while Sherlock answered emails. He needed him to shout at the TV and complain about the price of milk and share all the confidential yet hilarious information about his patients at the surgery over late-night takeaways from greasy restaurants. He needed him to walk across the floorboards and make them creak, to hang his jacket next to Sherlock’s coat, and to look at him in that way that he had, that made Sherlock think that maybe, just maybe, he somehow mattered to someone in this wretched and often incomprehensible world. 

So the scheme was born. He had almost backed out a few times, eventually admitting to Diego that it was idiocy to hope that John could ever think of him as more than a friend - could ever think of him as essential to… well, everything… as Sherlock felt him to be. 

Diego had shut that down pretty quickly. 

“Sherlock, darling,” he had said, rolling his eyes. “The man is mad for you. Last time I was here, I honestly was surprised to leave the flat without a black eye. He’s a territorial, jealous, mess. It’s _delicious_.”

Sherlock had of course argued the point, which was about as effective with the Chilean as dangling a piece of fish in front of a cat. Diego had forced the issue, taunted John and kissed Sherlock on the cheek in front of him for good measure. By the time Sherlock knew what had happened, John had agreed to come to Paris with him and the whole plan was set to begin. Diego had gone over to Paris to gather some intel on the museum staff for him, then rushed off to Chile, grousing that Sherlock still should be coming with him - but with a gleam in his eye that let Sherlock know he was forgiven. And John had seemed to enjoy spending the time together somewhere new, at least at first. 

But somehow it had all gone to hell. 

He had felt mortified when John scoffed at the acrobatics - he had been extremely hesitant to include it, but he had seen John’s eyes light up when they had watched that cursed film last Christmas with the charismatic yet dangerous thief twirling his way towards his goal. That was where he had got the whole idea _from_ . He had also seen the way John reacted to tall, slim, strong men all dressed in black - unconscious lip-licking was only the start, though he knew pointing this out was not going to be the best move. Diego had advised he don a black leather outfit for the heist, but Sherlock had drawn the line at that - he wanted to excite John, not give him a heart attack. Let him see Sherlock in a new light, but know that it was still essentially _him_ . But John had watched the video and called it ridiculous, had scoffed at the time and planning that had gone into it. Sherlock didn’t know which was worse - when he thought John was scoffing at him, for his ‘showing off’ that apparently did not come up to standard, or when he had finally realized John hadn’t even _known_ it was him at all. 

Pointless. A waste. The whole thing, from start to finish. He had been so stupid to think that he could keep John around, keep him engaged and interested and walking around their flat. Keep him close, keep him safe… keep him. He was going to go off with another of the Lex Harrisons of the world eventually, and Sherlock should have just accepted it in the first place. 

To think, on the ice rink, Sherlock had almost kissed him! Thank the gods above that his phone had rung and prevented it, because obviously that would have been an absolute disaster. At least this parting, though heart-wrenching, didn’t include the added humiliation of an unwanted kiss. Even without it, John didn’t want him. 

John had told him to go.

Sherlock was no good at any of this, no good at all. 

At least Diego still wanted him. Sherlock wasn’t sure why - he was feeling so low that he had expected him to rescind his offer. 

“You are an idiot,” Diego had said on the phone, shutting down his dark thoughts again. “Of course I still want you to come, why wouldn’t I? Personally, I think that John of yours must have brain damage or something. I’m serious. Anyone who sends you away needs to go see a doctor because there is something wrong with them. And worse - he _is_ a doctor!”

He had made Sherlock hum a little in amusement, if not the laughter he was aiming for. He was a good man - unorthodox - but good. Tucked away under the blanket of tired sadness, Sherlock was looking forward to spending some more time with him. At least with him, he didn’t have to try so hard.

He looked around at the screen above the gate. Twenty-five minutes until boarding. 

********************************************************

“Will you get out of the bloody way!” Greg shouted, for what must have been the tenth time in ten minutes. He swerved the car around the lorry with impressive speed and handling, though John still felt the need to grab the handle above his head, again. “Honestly it’s like they don’t even know what the siren and lights are _for!_ ”

John was not about to point out that technically, they were not for this. 

He checked the time on his phone for the hundredth time, his thoughts a mess of numbers. He had tried calling Sherlock after Greg would not stop insisting, heart in his throat, but Sherlock’s phone was turned off. 

_If we get there in ten minutes, then he might still be in check-in. But if he checked-in already, I’ll need another twenty minutes to get a boarding pass to get through security…._

Greg leaned on the car horn, as if it was going to be audible over the din of the sirens. 

“So what are you going to say to him then?” 

John’s stomach flipped. 

“I… I dunno! Don’t go?” They swerved again. 

“Well, yeah, OK, that’s a good start, but I think it might take more than that,” Greg said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m still confused by the way - why is he even going in the first place?”

“I told you about Diego.”

“Sure, but Sherlock isn’t the type to drop everything and go move in with some guy,” Greg said, cursing out another driver almost immediately.

“He moved in with _me_!” John reminded him, checking the time again. 

“Well yeah but that was different,” Greg snorted. “Bloody snow, how am I supposed to _see_ anything?”

“How was it different?”

“Uh… maybe, I dunno, I’m not sure, but it might be because _he’s in love with you_.”

John dropped his phone, and Greg sighed, loudly. 

“John, mate, you’re really going to have to let this ‘intentionally oblivious’ thing go. We are literally racing to the airport so you can stop him from leaving. I think we left, ‘we’re just friends’ behind a few cashier’s cheques ago.” 

“Ugh, I know, _I know_.” 

“That’s a start, at least,” Greg said, grinning maniacally as he took them onto the hard shoulder, car shuddering over the rough surface and forging ahead through the mounting snow. “So tell me - why is he leaving?”

“Because… because I told him to.” 

“WHAT?” Greg swerved a little more wildly than he intended and there was a heart-stopping moment where the passenger side door wing-mirror clipped the embankment. “Why the _hell_ did you do that?”

“I don’t know!” shouted John, heart hammering as the car screeched back onto the main road and they passed another sign for the airport. “I thought that’s what he wanted!”

“Geez John, you wanker! If that’s what he bloody well wanted, then that’s what he would have _done_ ! Just about the only way to get Sherlock to do something he doesn’t want to do, is if _YOU_ TELL HIM TO DO IT!”

“Alright, I know you’re right, but please stop shouting at me and keep your eyes on the road!” John cried, clinging to the door and checking the time again. The flight was due to leave in thirty minutes, and the prickles of panic were surging with more frequency through his veins. He didn’t want to voice it, didn’t even want to _think_ it, but… they probably weren’t going to make it. “How long do you think now?” 

Greg looked in agitation through the window and at the mirrors. “I’m not sure, mate,” he said, shaking his anger at John off when faced with bleak reality. “How long until the flight leaves?”

John checked his phone again. “Twenty-five minutes.” 

They both knew how long it was going to take him to get through security. 

“Maybe you can ask them to make an announcement?” Greg suggested. They had finally turned into the side-road leading up to the pick-up and drop-off point of the terminal, but even from that point it was still a five minute drive, even in good conditions. 

“Yeah…” said John, but already a gutted feeling was setting in. They weren’t going to make it. It had all been for nothing. 

“Don’t give up, you idiot!” Greg snarled after one look at his face, zipping around another car. “We are going to try, alright? And if it doesn’t work out, then you better think of plan B, because _it is not going to end like this!_ ”

John gaped at him. Greg noticed, and his face flushed a little. “I might be just a little bit invested after all this time, alright?” he muttered. “Everyone is! Just because you two were too stupid to see what was going on, doesn’t mean that everyone was.” 

John got a bit of a lump in his throat at that. 

“Alright, get ready,” Greg warned, “You’ll have to jump out. I’ll try and find a place to park, but you don’t worry about that, just call me when… just call me.” They shared a look - Greg a mix of fond exasperation and excitement, John like he was at the top of a rollercoaster and wanted to get off. “You can do this,” Greg said seriously, and stopped the car. 

John jumped out, immediately wishing he had been able to get his coat earlier as the snow was really coming down by then, and spotted the international departure area. He ran across the stalled lanes of traffic earning him a few angry beeps of horns, then the automatic doors were opening and he was running towards the announcement board. 

_Santiago, Santiago_ … he thought frantically to himself, scanning the list to find out which gate it was departing from. _Santiago_ … it wasn’t there! He wheeled around, breathless, and took off towards the information desk. 

“Hello sir…”

“Yes hi, the Santiago flight, it’s leaving in a few minutes, it’s not on the board?” 

“OK, sir, let me just check that for you,” said the young man, obviously used to stressed passengers. He tapped away on his computer, and John’s anxiety grew so much he was hopping from foot to foot. “Hmmm, yes,” said the man. “It was knocked off the board because the time for departure already passed.” 

“What? No it didn’t!” John exclaimed, pulling out his phone. 

“Yes it did, I’m sorry sir. There was a schedule change, it was brought forward by thirty minutes. All passengers were informed by email.” 

John stared at him, all the manic energy draining away. 

_No!_

“Thirty minutes,” he echoed softly. 

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” 

“No,” John said faintly. “No, it’s… it’s fine.” 

After a moment, the woman waiting in line behind him cleared her throat loudly. John stepped out of the way, body on autopilot, and stood staring around him without really seeing anything. 

Thirty minutes. Sherlock had been gone for thirty minutes. How was it possible that thirty minutes could change your life so drastically? 

John stood there for some unknown amount of time, grumpy passengers coming and going around him. The really awful part about it, was that right at the last second, right before the man had told him he was too late, he had worked out what he was going to say when he saw Sherlock. It was obvious. It had taken twenty five years, yes… but it was finally obvious. Sherlock would have been proud.

Except now... now he wasn’t going to be able to tell him. 

John started walking back towards the automatic doors, feeling numb. He knew what Greg was going to say - plan B. Call him, email him - even get on a plane and follow him... and John knew that maybe tomorrow one of those things would seem attainable. But not right now. Right now he felt like he was mourning something, something fundamental to who he was. 

He walked back out into the snow. It was deep enough to go over his shoes, even under the overhangs set up to cover the drop-off and taxi points. He took out his phone with numb fingers in order to call Greg, thinking that it was probably better to wait inside if he didn't want to freeze, glanced up and down the waiting area and felt his heart stop in his chest. 

_Sherlock_. 

Arms folded, Belstaff buttoned, stamping-his-cold-feet _Sherlock_. He was waiting in line at the taxi area, coat collar turned up and glaring at anyone who got too close to him. He was focused on the people in the queue ahead of him, but something must have alerted that phenomenal brain that that something was amiss - perhaps even the weight of John’s incredulous stare. 

Because right then, he turned, he saw, he focused, and he stared. “ _John?_ ” he mouthed, but no sound came out. He looked like he had seen a ghost and John assumed he did not look much better. 

They both stood still as statues for a few seconds, until the man waiting behind Sherlock tried to nudge him forward in the queue by hitting the back of Sherlock’s shoes with his suitcase. John watched Sherlock spin around angrily, no doubt something devastating on his lips, and the feeling in his legs came back. He rushed over. 

“Sherlock…”

“...realize that making me move _three centimeters_ forward is not going to help you get into a taxi any faster…”

“Sherlock…”

“...dare you _push me_ as if _your_ space is more important than _my_ space…”

“Sher…”

“...back to your _incontinent cats_ as if they are even capable of _missing you_ …”

John couldn’t help it. He started chuckling. The rude and aggressive indignation rolling off the detective was like a balm to his weary soul, and the chuckles rapidly started building into a full-on laugh of joy that halted Sherlock’s tirade in its tracks. 

“John?” he asked, obviously unsure of how he was supposed to react to being laughed at in public, and by John, no less. 

“Sorry, sorry,” said John, still chuckling, enough that he had to wipe at his eyes as he tried to stop. He realized he was vaguely hysterical at this point. “Just… come over here, will you?” He pointed further along the waiting area to where there was a vacant overhang, snow still falling all around them. Sherlock paused, assessing the situation, but thankfully gave a small nod and walked with John to the spot. 

“John,” Sherlock said, stamping his feet against the cold. “I don’t understand - what are you _doing_ here?”

“Abbott House got your gift,” John said, smiling. Sherlock considered that, brow still drawn. 

“It wasn’t really for them,” he said hesitantly, eyes darting to John’s and back. Then he started speaking more clearly, voice picking up speed and no small measure of desperation. “I know now that I should have explained, but I wanted to do something for them, because it was like… it was like doing something for you, I mean the younger you, not the _you_ , you, now, but the _past_ you… But it was meant to be a surprise, so I didn’t tell you, so I’m sorry about that.” He took a big breath and John saw the signs of a nerves-based Sherlockian-monologue blossoming all over his face. “And I’m sorry about Paris, it was supposed to be an adventure, it was supposed to be a _grand gesture_ , but then it was all going wrong and I didn’t know how to…”

“I love you.”

Sherlock stopped, literally froze in place, mouth open, like a freeze-frame in a film. John smiled, rather goofily he was sure. It had taken twenty-five years to say - but right at the end, it was easy. 

“I do, you know,” he went on, grinning. “And I know that you are completely mad, mad enough to think that setting up this whole Louvre thing was completely reasonable, and I love that about you, too. I just wish you had run it by me first, or you know… anyone.” 

Sherlock blinked once, very slowly. John couldn’t stop smiling, even though there were still so many unknowns. They had got this far - there was a chance.

“I…” Sherlock tried, and John nodded encouragingly. “I... I did run it by someone,” he said. His eyes were still way too wide and tone far too thin, but John would take what he could get. 

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Diego.”

John snorted with laughter, even that name not enough to bring him down at that moment. 

“Diego, right. Next time you decide to do something like this, get a second opinion from someone who isn’t a sociopathic danger addict with a dark past, OK?” 

Sherlock blinked a few more times, then looked off to the side, considering. 

“I don’t know anyone like that,” he said finally, and his completely serious tone set John to laughing again. 

“I don’t!” Sherlock said, voice a bit stronger, smile lines just beginning to show around his eyes. 

John calmed himself down again with some effort. He had a sudden moment of clarity in which he could see the future so clearly, if only he could convince Sherlock to stay. It involved a lot of laughing, and smiling, and so much happiness he wasn’t sure he would be able to stand it. 

He couldn’t wait to get started.

“So…” Sherlock said slowly, caution still evident in every line of his body, though he was starting to thaw, “Aside from it being a bit… mad…”

“I loved it,” said John sincerely, stepping forward. “All the drama, the silliness, getting the Paris Chief of Police fired, that twisting thing you did on the rope… actually, especially that twisting thing you did on the rope…” he trailed off, a teasing lilt in his voice. Sherlock looked down, but there was definitely a pleased smile on his face now, and a bashful blush spreading over his cheeks that made him look just lovely. “I didn’t like getting smacked in the shoulder as much as the rest…”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Sherlock’s head came up quickly, anxiety replacing the smile. “I’m _so sorry,_ John, really, but you surprised me and you wouldn’t let go and…”

“And you tore yourself up afterwards, I know, Sherlock. I saw it. Just… I want you to know that I loved _all_ of the trip. I loved listening to you talk at a million miles an hour while we walked along the Seine. I loved walking through the Christmas market with you. I loved falling over twenty times while I tried to ice skate with you. You don’t need to plan all that stuff and worry so much. I loved it all - because _I love you_.”

“You keep saying that,” said Sherlock faintly. 

John gave him an impish smile. “Better get used to it. As I’m not going to stop anytime soon.” 

Sherlock’s eyes roved over his face, and John was elated as he saw the uncertainty begin to recede. 

“So,” said John, reaching out and touching Sherlock’s arm lightly. “Will you please come home with me? I don’t know what happened to your flight…”

“It got cancelled due to the snow,” Sherlock said, gesturing behind John. John looked over his shoulder at the light fluffy drifts that had built up while they had been talking. 

“Right… Well, that’s going to make getting out of here interesting… anyway, I don’t know if you are booked on another flight, or what, and I don’t care, OK? I don’t care because it was me who was stupid enough to tell you to go be with Diego in the first place. But please, come home with me. Stay with me.” He shivered then. Now that the adrenaline and excitement were wearing off somewhat, his body was reminding him that he was in fact out in the December snow without a jacket or protection of any reasonable kind. 

Sherlock frowned. 

“I will have to go eventually, you know,” he said softly. John sighed, but was not about to give up now.

“OK… and… again, that’s all my fault. I’m… I’m so stupid, and I was too slow. Maybe you’re in love with him already. But… can you give us a chance? I know I have no right to ask…”

“Wait…” Sherlock said, peering down at him. “Maybe… maybe I’m _what?_ ”

“In love with Diego?” said John, crossing his arms and rubbing at them to try and warm up. 

It was apparently Sherlock’s turn to get uncontrollable giggles. 

“What?” asked John, miffed. 

“John…” Sherlock said, lips still trembling with mirth, “Diego wanted me to go to his _wedding_. I introduced him to his soon-to-be wife, almost thirty years ago now. I haven’t been back since then, even though he’s asked me a hundred times…”

“His _wedding?_ ”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, and now he was smiling a real smile. 

“His _wife?_ ” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his smile grew wider. 

“Yes, John,” he said patiently. 

“So… so you’re not... moving to Chile?” 

Sherlock laughed properly, and it was the very best sound that John thought he had ever heard. 

“No. I’m not moving to Chile.” 

“Oh… good.” 

They grinned at each other. Just then a rather large shiver of cold went through John, and he bounced his knees a few times trying to warm up. 

“Perhaps we can continue this in a taxi?” Sherlock said worriedly. 

“Hmmm, yes,” agreed John, teeth chattering, “But this taxi’s name is Greg.” He fished out his phone and dialled the number, fingers shaking. 

“Greg?” asked Sherlock.

“Lestrade, you muppet. You know his name!... Greg! Hi, mate. Yeah, I found him.” John had to hold the phone away from his ear as Greg started screaming excitedly down it. Sherlock looked at the phone with some surprise. “Yeah, OK, mate. Yes, we will tell you. Look, we’re freezing out here, can you come get us from next to the taxi stop? I know, there’s a lot of snow, yes… ten minutes? Ugh. No, no it’s OK, we’ll be here.” 

“I know this probably isn’t the best time for this,” he said, turning back to Sherlock, “...but I think we should at least put in an appearance back at Abbott House. I know Harry definitely wants to talk to you, and I promised the kids ages ago…”

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock said easily, eyes twinkling. John wondered if there were going to be more surprises, and found he did not care one iota. 

“We should go back inside where it’s warmer,” he said, looking back towards the automatic doors. 

“Yes…” said Sherlock slowly. “Or…” He stepped up closer to John, unbuttoning the front of the Belstaff. He was looking at John the way he had done on the ice, back in Paris, a million years ago. A mixture of terrified and hopeful. John’s heart swelled - because this ridiculous, absolutely mental, possibly-criminal, and so, so _brave_ man was going to be the death of him - and the life. 

John hummed and stepped forward into the warmth, turned his head and put his ear flush against Sherlock’s chest, and wrapped his arms around him tightly underneath the coat. Sherlock closed his arms holding the coat as far around John’s back as it would reach, a deep sigh of relief reverberating through his chest and into John’s. John smiled and squeezed him even tighter. He felt Sherlock lean his head down, face nuzzling into his hair as he took another couple of deep calming breaths. 

“I missed you so much,” John said softly, closing his eyes. 

“I missed you too,” Sherlock said just as softly into his hair. “I hate it when you aren’t there. I don’t know how… how to _be_.”

John hummed, rubbing Sherlock’s back to reassure him, because he knew it well, that lost feeling. He leaned back slightly, and Sherlock moved his head so as to rest their foreheads together. His eyes were closed, and there was a content smile on his face. However, this close up, John could see how tired he was, how stressed he had been, and his heart twisted a little. 

No more fretting for Sherlock Holmes. 

“Well, we’ll just have to stick together then,” he murmured, heart pounding, and he tilted his head, and kissed him. The blue-green eyes opened suddenly, flaring like twin supernovas, and John looked back, unafraid. After a moment, the eyes closed again, and Sherlock pressed back into the kiss, arms wrapping even further around him until John wasn’t sure where he ended and Sherlock began. John thought he was in heaven, until one of those plush lips moved gently underneath his, and then he realized with a powerful burst of heat that he was going to need a new definition of heaven. 

Sherlock moved his left hand to cup the back of John’s head, and John released his grip on Sherlock’s back so he could reach up and hold his jaw, directing and deepening the kiss even further. Sherlock made the most wonderful little noise as he did so, and gaining confidence, John couldn’t help sneaking his tongue out to get a real taste of his very own madman. Sherlock apparently approved of this, as the little noise became deeper, and a bold stroke of tongue told John that the time for hesitation and fretting was decidedly over. 

By the time Greg arrived to collect them, with much whooping and blaring of the car horn as they remained oblivious, John had never felt warmer in his life. 

****************************************************

The Christmas Fair was in full swing when they finally managed to get back to Abbott House. The snow had stopped, now piled up in sparkly drifts against every wall, but the local residents of their part of London had come out in droves to show their support. Sherlock had balked slightly when he first saw the crowd, but then John had grabbed his hand and of course, he had followed. Lestrade gaped around happily at the fair, and Sherlock was glad he was finally distracted enough to stop teasing them. 

Sherlock was still somewhat internally reeling. Just a few hours ago he had been as miserable as he could ever remember being, on his way to celebrate someone else’s wedding in a far-off country, with the certain knowledge that the love of his life didn’t want him. Now he was surrounded by happy well-wishers, hand clasped so firmly in John’s that Sherlock knew if he were able, John would never, ever let go again. 

John pulled him through the courtyard and into the building, not stopping until they were in a room with a roaring fireplace and Christmas tree in the corner, Lestrade bounding in behind them. Sherlock put his gloves in his pockets and hung the Belstaff next to John’s jacket. There were more adults and children milling about in here as well, but Sherlock spotted two familiar faces over in one corner. Harry started waving at them enthusiastically. Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow. 

“You did it!” Harry crowed as soon as they were near enough, and grabbed John in a fierce hug. “When you speak to Rosie later, please tell her she owes me twenty quid.” 

“Oh, very nice,” John said, laughing with mock indignation. 

“Brother mine,” Mycroft said as though bored, “Decided to stick around a while yet, have you?” Sherlock couldn’t even dredge up enough bad feelings to snip in return at Mycroft, he was just too damned happy. He grinned at him instead, knowing it would surprise him, and just said, 

“Yep.” 

Harry released John and gave Sherlock a strong hug as well, to his surprise. 

“What you’ve done for this place,” she said into his shoulder, and then pulled back, “It’s going to change the lives of these kids, and I’m not sure you even know by how much. But me and John…” and here she gave her brother a somewhat teary smile, “We know. So thank you. Thank you _so much_.” John was also smiling at him over her head, looking a little teary himself. 

“Um…” Sherlock said, unused to such effusive praise from most people. Perhaps it was a Watson thing. “You’re welcome?” 

Harry laughed and thankfully let him go without further comment, turning to Lestrade. 

“Thank you for helping my idiot brother,” she said, and John smacked her lightly on the arm. “A lot of the kids are excited to meet you again - they probably want a chance to shoot your gun or something, but still.” 

“Well we can’t do that, but we can think of something,” Greg said, grabbing a cup of hot cocoa that a member of staff was offering from a tray. “And you’re welcome, but I’ll tell you, it was hard work. On the way there, John was a nervous wreck, and on the way back, _Jack Frost_ here would not stop yapping. ‘Oh, the Emir of Qatar was in on it from the start,’ and, ‘I planted my own magnifying glass in order to get the code, because I’m so clever and everyone else is so stupid.’” Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but Lestrade plowed on. “Then once he was done, these two,” he pointed his cup and Sherlock and then John, “... were absolutely nauseating for the rest of the drive, seriously.” 

Sherlock smacked him in the arm much as John had done to Harry, feeling himself flush bright red. 

“That’s not true,” John protested, throwing an arm around Sherlock’s waist. “I was the perfect gentleman, wasn’t I?” He was smiling up at Sherlock, hand lightly rubbing against his ribcage, and Sherlock wondered if he was ever going to reclaim full use of his brain again as it temporarily went offline. Amazingly, he didn’t even care. 

“Awww,” Harry cooed, and Sherlock looked away from John’s face as he realized she was cooing at _him_. He blushed even harder, and felt John’s chuckle reverberating through his side. “Look at him,” she went on with a soppy tone. “Not even making any deductions.” Sherlock glared at her and wondered how soon they could leave. 

“Hmmm yes,” said John mock-thoughtfully. “Well, here’s one. That’s mistletoe.” He glanced upwards, then back at Sherlock, his smile turning mischievous. Sherlock glanced up as well, and sure enough, there was a sprig of it suspended over the gift table. 

John squeezed his side and didn’t say anything more, leaving it up to him to decide - as if there were any decisions to make. 

“Well,” he said, pitching his voice low and watching as John got slightly breathless upon hearing it, “We know what people are supposed to do under the mistletoe…”

He turned fully into John’s embrace and leaned down, John already stretching to meet him. It was extraordinary how John Watson’s lips seemed to have been made to perfectly fit against his own, and he couldn’t help the pleased sound that seemed to echo throughout his chest at the contact. He pulled back, vaguely aware of some catcalls from people in the room, but still pecked John a couple more times on those miraculous lips before fully separating, as he just could not help it. 

“Gaaaay,” came a pronouncement from the doorway, and when Sherlock looked over it was that bright lad, Charlie, and he was grinning at them as he drew out the word. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and raised it to his lips, then simply called, 

“Yep!” Charlie laughed in response, gave them a thumbs up, and disappeared back outside. 

“Are we going to be subjected to these displays for much longer?” complained Mycroft. 

“Oh yes,” said John smugly. “Much, _much_ longer.”

“Presents!” cried Harry, shutting down any further snipes. John caught Sherlock’s eye, looking contrite. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here, so I left your gift at home.” Sherlock marvelled that he could be concerned with something so trivial, but squeezed his hand to reassure him nonetheless. 

“I left yours there as well,” he said, and John smiled toothily. 

“And Mycroft,” John said, turning to him while Harry looked through the remaining gifts, “I didn’t expect to see you…”

“Not to worry, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft interrupted smoothly. “Taking on the job of keeping my brother out of trouble years ago, was gift enough. I do, however, have something for you.”

Sherlock gave him a warning glance, suddenly regretting inviting him here. Mycroft was of course completely unperturbed.

He picked out a small flat square package from the table, wrapped in brown paper. John took it, surprised, and opened it to find a burned DVD. He looked back at Mycroft curiously.

“Video footage of the Louvre break-in,” Mycroft said, a little laughter in his eyes. “The… _acrobatic_ portion, begins around the eleventh minute.” 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock groaned, mortified. 

“No, no,” said John, bumping shoulders with him. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy watching this. Often.” Sherlock blinked at the overtly flirty look on John’s face. This was going to take some getting used to.

“Hmmm, yes, well,” Mycroft said with a bit of a smirk. “We don’t need to know the details, thank you.” 

Sherlock moved to the table before the conversation could get any more embarrassing. 

“This one is for you, Mycroft.” His brother inclined his head, taking the small box and reading the message with no expression. He then dispatched the wrapping swiftly, leaving a neat little pile on the table.

“Smythson’s,” Mycroft said approvingly, reading the brand on the box. He opened it and took out a high-end leather-bound notebook. Sherlock saw John smother a surprised laugh when he saw it, and loved him even more for catching on so quickly. “Thank you, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, but Sherlock could see he was puzzled at such an innocuous gift and how it could relate to the message on the label. _To Mycroft.Try not to mess this up._

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said, then flicked a glance at Lestrade who was watching them. “I knew you would appreciate it. I believe Lestrade would as well. That’s right, isn’t it? You do have an interest in fine red leather?”

Lestrade choked on his hot chocolate. 

“Are you alright, inspector?” Mycroft asked with concern. 

“Hmm, yes, fine, fine,” said Lestrade, spluttering and glaring at Sherlock, who couldn’t help but smile innocently back. 

“So you’re an equestrian?” Mycroft asked Lestrade with an air of confusion.

“What?”

“You have an interest in leather?” Mycroft pressed, and Sherlock felt his own eyebrows raise as he noted a slightly predatory look on his brother’s face. Mycroft stepped towards Greg who seemed just then to be frozen to the spot. “Or,” Mycroft continued, “Is it merely that you like to _ride?_ ”

“ANYWAY,” said John loudly, and both Mycroft and Lestrade startled. John smiled at them but nodded his head to indicate that they were still in the presence of children. Sherlock was gratified to see Lestrade sporting a healthy blush, and felt a newfound respect for his annoying older brother. “This has been lovely but we should really spend some time outside at the fair,” John reminded them. 

“Wait, there’s another gift here,” Harry said, holding up the large square package that Sherlock had wrapped for Lestrade. Feeling it was probably best that they did not stick around for the opening of this one, Sherlock leaned down and whispered quickly into John’s ear. 

“Are you sure we need to spend time at the fair? Personally I think I’d much rather enjoy giving you your present back home… _in private_.” The speed at which John’s ear went from light pink to red was really quite astonishing, and Sherlock looked forward to finding out if it were a body-wide phenomenon. 

“Sherlock, is this vinyl?” Lestrade was saying, tearing off the wrapping paper and looking at the plain box. John seemed to have lost the ability to speak, so Sherlock leaned in, making sure his voice was even quieter, lips barely brushing that red ear, and purred, 

“I brought some of that rope back from Paris…”

“We have to go,” John said loudly, and Lestrade looked up from opening the box first in surprise, then exasperation. Mycroft just rolled his eyes, and Harry was grinning. 

“Ugh, fine, get out of here both of you,” said Lestrade, shaking his head at them. “But you owe me a night at the pub!”

“Yes, sure,” said John with no small amount of preoccupation, already throwing Sherlock’s coat over to him and reaching for his own. Sherlock walked briskly after him, reaching for his hand, as Harry turned back to Lestrade and said, 

“Aren’t you going to finish opening that?” 

“A bit faster, John,” Sherlock said, increasing his pace as they passed through the hallway and out into the snow. John matched his stride, and they were just reaching the gates when they heard Lestrade shout, 

“SHERLOCK HOLMES, IS THIS THE _MONA LISA?!_ ”

John gaped up at him, and Sherlock grinned. 

“Borrowed something else…” John said faintly, then broke into a matching grin himself. 

“Well Lestrade did say he liked their smile,” Sherlock reminded him, but then there came another louder but less articulate shout from behind them. “I rather think we should be going now, John,” he said, pulling on his hand just as Lestrade emerged from the building looking fit to explode. “Care to go for a little run?” he asked airily, picking up the pace. 

“With you?” John said, already starting to shift into a run, while waving back towards Lestrade who was being barely restrained by Mycroft and Harry. “I’d love to!” 

John laughed then, and it was something unrestrained, joyful and completely infectious. Sherlock’s answering laugh echoed all around them, as together they took off running into the snow-covered London streets. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of the story folks! The next three chapters are gorgeous artwork that goes with it.
> 
> Credits roll to this song:  
> ‘For You’ Rita Ora and Liam Payne  
> Link: https://youtu.be/rxZKyQOsG3o 
> 
> Selected lyrics:
> 
> In your eyes, I'm alive: inside, you're beautiful, something so unusual...  
> In your eyes, I know I'm home.  
> Every tear, every fear: gone with the thought of you, changing what I thought I knew.  
> I'll be yours for a thousand lives.  
> I'm free as a bird when I'm flying in your cage,  
> I'm diving in deep and I'm riding with no brakes,  
> I'm bleeding in love and you're swimming in my veins,  
> You’ve got me now.
> 
> *******************  
> Written for the ‘2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style’, December 25th prompt ‘opening gifts’. Yes I know, got a bit carried away! I also wrote (a much shorter) one for December 2nd so if you enjoyed this, you might like that one too - see my author page.
> 
> In case anyone wants a visual for the original characters:
> 
> Lex Harrison: British Director of Abbott House Orphanage: modelled after Tilda Swinton in the style of human-Gabriel in Constantine.  
> Diego Silvestre: Chilean master thief and ballet dancer: modelled after Santiago Cabrera in the style of Aramis in the BBC’s Three Musketeers.  
> Henri Bernard: French Curator of the Louvre: modelled after Jimmy Jean-Louis in the style of Rene in Heroes.  
> Pierre Rousseau: French Chief of Paris police: modelled after Tom Hiddleston in the style of Dr. Robert Laing in High Rise.
> 
> Shoutout to Gian Giocomo Caprotti and Lisa Gherardini as they (?) appear in Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. May we never discover the answer to your mysteries. 
> 
> Special thanks to Tindomerelhloni for setting up this collection challenge, and to Raechem and Randomwordsonpaper for beta reading and giving feedback. It’s been lovely being part of this challenge as it kick-started my motivation for writing again after this complete train-wreck of a year. To all my fellow writers - you inspire me and I’m grateful to be a part of our community. 
> 
> Stay safe and well everyone, have a very Merry Christmas, and bring on 2021! xXx


	4. ARTWORK: Chapter 1, arguing in 221B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Bernard,” said John, not even attempting to get the pronunciation correct as he knew he would mess it up. He kicked Sherlock again, who started trying to wriggle out of the chair to escape.
> 
> “Mr. Holmes, there is an item of great value that is going to be displayed in the museum between Christmas and New Year. It is of great, great value, do you understand?”
> 
> “Yes?” Sherlock said as John shoved the phone closer to him. Sherlock scowled, grabbing John’s arm with both hands and starting to twist it away from him. John put one knee on the arm of the chair to get more leverage, grabbing the back to hold on.

[](https://ibb.co/7Rq6Pd5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artist is the fabulous [alifetimeaheadtoprovethat, click here to go to their Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/alifetimeaheadtoprovethat)


End file.
